


The Art of Being a Valet

by curtangel



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-05-17 17:31:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14836058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtangel/pseuds/curtangel
Summary: Jeeves perspective on various aspects of Bertie's life.Could be considered in the same universe as my other story about Bertie.Will update tags as I go.Incomplete, but I'm trying to make each chapter a self-contained story





	1. Revenge is a Dish Best Served Well

I advise young men who are starting out in service to serve an older employer when they're young and young employer when they are old. The first because older employers know what they want and will be your best training. The second because when you get older, youth has a particular draw. 

_Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth_  
_And delves the parallels in beauty's brow._

I say this with authority, as if my employment with Mr. Wooster were planned. Indeed, many of my fellow members at the Junior Ganymede seem to assume that I had my eye on Mr. Wooster as a potential employer. The reality was, in its own way, less flattering.

At the time the opening came to my attention, I hadn't had a steady employer in several months and I was not seeking one. I had maintained a comfortable financial cushion and was able to easily supplement my income from working to cover other member's vacations. I was enjoying a hot cup of tea when George Webb sidled up to me with a large grin.

"Lady Craye is engaged again." George informed me, raising his eyebrow slightly. He knew well my dislike and (admittedly) one-sided feud with her ladyship.  Lady Cray would, naturally, never stoop to feuding with or even remembering a servant. But there are some things a man with pride cannot abide going unavenged. 

"Who is the poor sap this time?" 

"Mr. Bertram Wooster - that name mean anything to you? Because he put in a request to the agency for a valet and I might just have his address in my pocket." If George had less dignity he would have said this last bit in a sing-song tone. I didn't know much about Mr. Wooster other than the public information: his family connections, rumors of a few short-lived engagements. I had seen him in passing in a professional capacity but the only impression he left were his rather garish socks and unwise choice in hats.

"He's a little..."  George lifted his heels in silent innuendo. "But, naturally, nothing specific is known. I would warn you that he let his previous valet steal from him for a fair length of time." Again with the eyebrow. We both knew that there were only two kinds of employers that would let their servants steal from them - one kind is extraordinarily mentally negligible. The other kind isn't an employer one would want.  Even with the Junior Ganymede's strict rules, many things about employers could only be shared through whispers and pointed looks - vague entries about carefully watching an employer's friendships with young men and notes on when to look the other way.

"I can handle myself." I said carefully, "I don't plan to be in his employ long. You know my personal rule about serving married men."

"That's my boy." George laughed. He knew that once I set my mind on a thing it was only a matter of seeing it through. If George was correct, I could see no better revenge on Lady Craye than seeing her married off to a man who would never truly appreciate her beauty. She was vain, as many beautiful women are, and had an Achilles heel for the man who was not carried away by her charms. I've seen the sort of half-life the woman married to a man who would never truly desire her lived. Early in my career, when I was young and naïve I was on the staff of such a household. The creams, the new dresses, the expensive undergarments, the confusion... That particular young woman deserved no such treatment. However, for the Lady Craye, this life seemed just and right.  If she were humiliated by him carrying on dalliances with the staff, even better. I intended to push the thing through as quickly as possible. Bacon might say " _Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior"_ but I would never pretend to be superior to Lady Craye. That would be unseemly.

"And what," I asked, "do you need me to do while I'm there?"

"You know me too well. My niece, Rose, is the Lady Craye's maid at the moment."

"My condolences." I commiserated.

"Indeed. I'm looking to move her out of that position as soon as possible." 

"And how do you plan to assist her in that hefty task?"

"I was hoping through marriage."

"Marriage to who?" I narrowed my eyes a touch.

"Don't worry," George said good-naturedly, "You're safe enough. She's had a long running flirtation with elder Mr. Wooster's under-gardener. They half grew up together. Rumor has it the elder Wooster is closer to his deathbed than he'll admit. At his death the household will be broken up - most likely the senior gardener (who is not a young man himself) will retire and the young man will be moving to a new place with excellent references.  A gardener's wife is a solid position. She could certainly do worse. But he's a shy fellow and needs a bit of a push."

"And you think I'm the man to give him that push?"

"You seem to have a way with people, Reggie." George held out the work order for Bertram Wooster, "Now, are you going to help me, or will I be passing this on to someone else?"

On my way to Berkeley Mansions, I developed a mental profile of the young man in question. None of the older Wooster's long-term family servants were members of the Junior Ganymede so there wasn't much in the club book on the young Wooster other an amusing story or two and notes by members who dealt with him in passing. Those notes were no great help as they were a bizarre mish mash of opposites, some praising him as a friendly and pleasant young man and others condemning him as a troublemaker of the first order. I tried to imagine the sort of young man who would want to marry Lady Crate and I imagined a dandy of the worst kind - officious and arrogant, but able to be pleasing when it suited him. A snob, at best - at worst, one of those young men who sees the family servants as their own personal harem. 

When I entered Mr. Wooster's apartment, the young man and I each examined the other.  I noted,  as soon as my eyes adjusted to his suit, that he was attempting  _Types of Ethical Theory_.  He certainly didn't appear the type to consider a work of this sort light reading to clear the head - and a surreptitious glance at his bookshelf bolstered this theory. Perhaps there was genuine affection for Lady Craye on his part. 

My new employer was clearly suffering from some late night marauding; yet, he seemed less the dissipated dandy and more the child who ate too much cake. The sight of him reminded me of my own youthful travails - late nights spent out, mornings spent with an aching head. There's nothing I dislike as much as being indisposed; however, I was unwilling to give up my late night amusements. This led to me perfecting the remedy Mr. Wooster praises so often.  A young man often drinks to have fun - it is only the old man who drinks to not feel at all. It was no great matter to be engaged for employment after I assisted the young man with freshening himself. 

Mr. Wooster showed some potential for proper employment - in less than five minutes of our acquaintance he showed consideration for my time, appreciation for my service, gave clear instructions as to what he expected from me, and trusted me to do my job properly. There were a few negatives that could be managed - such as that suit.  It was difficult to ignore that Mr. Wooster had a... distinctive manner of speaking and moving. I suppose it was unfair of me to judge the young man on things he clearly couldn't help, but it was an item on the minus end. It was clear he had a... flamboyant style.  He could work for my original purpose, though it seemed likely the young man didn't understand his own tendencies. Growing up in the homosocial environment of a boys school with minimal exposure to young women outside of dances and house parties, he almost certainly had no reason to notice. If I were to push the thing through, eventually I would get my full revenge. But, on the other hand, good employers aren't exactly a dime a dozen.

I decided speak to the service at this uncle's.  My initial assumptions still colored my view of the young man. I thought to myself, he could be obscuring his true nature in light of his recent engagement.  I had no desire to be in the job of continually covering up a young man's indiscretions. Old family servants are simultaneously the best and worst references - in a young man like Mr. Wooster some only see the child that once might have held on to their fingers with a tiny chubby fist. I had worked with the elder Mr. Wooster's butler, Oakshott, previously (the elder Mr. Wooster and Lord Worpleston were good friends). He was a man unlikely to be moved by memories of a little boy in sailor suits to hide the indiscretions of a grown man. The young Mr. Wooster appeared as innocent as a child, but "nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion".

The trip to Easeby was uneventful enough. I was familiar with Easeby's servant's quarters and easily found Mr. Wooster's room.  I discovered to my irritation that someone had polished Mr. Wooster's brown shoes with black polish. With young Edwin was on the premises, it was no great mystery as to what had happened. It would do no good to blame the boy directly, the damage was already done.  There were many small ways to make his stay at the Easeby... less comfortable.

This would be the first test of my employer. Would he recognize the damage had nothing to do with me or would he blame me irrationally?  I could, in my mind, already hear Lord Worpleston howling about it. On my way to speak to Mr. Wooster, I passed a young maid with eyes that were red from crying. She was followed by a boy with a suitcase. I sent the boy on and, handing her a handkerchief from my pocket, gave her a moment to calm down.

"Do you require any assistance, Miss?"

"No," she sniffled a bit. "I need to develop a thicker skin if I'm going to keep my place. Her ladyship is quite particular in how her cases are packed."

I took a wild guess.

"Lady Craye has always been very particular in her ways." I said with sympathy. She wiped her eyes a bit, as she gratefully nodded. "I worked for her father for some time and he was much the same. I'm a friend of your Uncle George - he wanted me to check in and see how you were doing."

"You won't tell him about this will you?" Her eyes became wide. "He didn't want me to take the position, but I want to show him I can handle being a proper ladies maid."

"I will not tell him if you do not wish it, miss."

"How is Uncle George doing?" She relaxed noticeably.

"He is in excellent health - are you accompanying her ladyship away from Easeby? Has she decided to end her engagement to Mr. Wooster, already?"

"Nothing like that, some house nearby... the Murgatoyds' I think, is having a dance and she's going with some of the other guests." She looked around quickly and whispered "And she originally planned to go without her intended, Mr. Wooster, knowing anything about it. What do you make of that?" She didn't think much of it, that much was clear. In a normal voice, she added, "There's going to be a small servant's ball on Sunday with some of the leftovers but I'll probably just stay in my room and read." She smiled without self-pity, as if to show that was her preference.

"That reminds me, I wanted to be sure my employer has a fresh boutonniere. Is there a greenhouse on the premises?" It was a thin story, but I wanted a very specific response. She blushed slightly, and suggested I speak to John, the undergardener. A few pointed questions later and I was ready to agree that my friend's diagnosis of the situation on the young woman's side was accurate enough. To avoid her feeling interrogated, I spoke a bit about myself.

"I am new in Mr. Wooster's employ and am trying to get a feel for what kind of employer he is..."

"Mr Wooster? He's a sweetheart. Just between us?" She looked. I looked and then nodded. "He's way too good for her. She might be hoity-toity smart, but the people downstairs love Mr. Wooster. The cook makes sure he gets the best plates." She gave her eyes a final wipe. 

This gave me much to think about as went towards the parlor to find my employer. I stopped in the hallway outside the smoking room when I heard Mr. Wooster's distinctive voice.  I, quite naturally, listened in.  It was clear Mr. Wooster was out of his depth with the Lady Craye, who convinced him to destroy his uncle's manuscript even at the potential cost of a fair sum of money. As the conversation was reaching its natural conclusion, I walked back a bit, to make it look like I had been walking through the hallway and only recently arrived. This had the potential be a difficult conversation without it being started with an accusation of eavesdropping. Mr. Wooster was visibly distressed - if he was trodden on and treated badly by a peer, would he tread on me in turn? It was a relief to find that, while Mr. Wooster was clearly displeased with the loss of his shoes, he didn't have a fit about them. The worst part about having an employer like Lord Worpleston or Lady Craye is it lowers your proper standards for an employer. Suddenly, "not having a fit" is a goal post that exists. 

My desire to avenge myself on the Lady Craye was unabated, but I was becoming uncertain Mr. Wooster was the proper vessel for such a plot. I spoke to Oakshott at dinner in an attempt to get some of the details filled in.

"Does the elder Mr. Wooster approve of the match?"

"I don't believe he'd be displeased if something were to happen to prevent it." Oakshott said thoughtfully, "The two are poorly matched in almost every way. Master Bertram is good natured young person with high spirits and Lady Craye.... is not."

"In some couples," I noted, "such contrast could be to the benefit of both parties. He softens her, she encourages him to be a little firmer..."

"For that to work, there needs to be mutual respect to begin with." Mrs. Salter, the cook, came in with a pitcher in one hand and a covered bowl of rolls in the other. "She views him more as a long-term charity project. And that girl will cost him money - you know it. She only has a small income and will almost certainly say something to insult Mr. Wooster to the point of getting the young master written out of the will."

 "Master Bertram most likely would not do well in the working world, even with all of his fancy education." Oakshott noted gravely.

"Difficult personality?" I asked.

"I would say if anything his personality was a bit too simple." Oakshott looked at me significantly. I nodded to show I understood.  It would not do for the butler to be overheard calling Mr. Wooster's young nephew a simpleton, even if it were true. "The right valet could have a good long career with the young master."

"I am not sure if I am the right person for the job. I am a little curious as to why the young man kept his previous gentleman so long when he was purloining items."

"You think the young Mr. Wooster was buggering his man?" Gage, the valet for one of the guests at Easeby, was one of the younger staff at the table and hadn't yet learned when silence was wisdom.

"Gage, watch your language." Oakshott kept a firm hand on the household.

"That's what I'd be thinking, if I were his place." Gage speared an unabashed potato. "Meadowes seemed to think we were buddies. He told me all about it - the young Mr. Wooster in't that bright, see? Leaves money everywhere, can't remember what he has and doesn't have. Meadowes tells him, 'oh you left that case behind' or 'I burned that jacket with the iron' or 'they must have sent the wrong cigarrettes' and he just accepts it. You're in a pretty soft position, if you ask me. If things hadn't happened so quickly, I would've offered for the place myself."

"That's enough." The butler said firmly before acknowledging, "The boy is fair to a fault. His previous man got a little too comfortable for his own good, but a discreet and intelligent man could get very comfortable."

"You'll never find a boy sweeter than our Master Bertram." The cook stood at the table, ready to gossip.

"What about Master Edwin? Or has he attempted an "act of kindness" for you recently?"  I was teasing her a bit but also trying to ferret out exactly why the cook is so attached to the young man.

"I can never tell if Master Edwin is really doing his best and doing a poor job or if he's a little menace pretending to be good." She shook her head.

"Which was Mr. Wooster?" I asked, amused.

"Why," she laughed heartily, "he was both a little menace and a little boy doing his best. But when he was a menace he didn't pretend he was doing anything else and when he tried to do his best he would try ever so hard.  I love making him his favorites when he visits because he's always so appreciative." Mrs. Salter found reasons to stick around, fiddling with this and that. "When he was little he would eat with us down in the kitchen - he always would tell the most charming little stories and sing.  He needs a girl that will appreciate who he is instead of trying to make him into something else." This was more the sort of thing I expected from the family servants. I checked around the room and I saw that many of the older household servants were nodding in agreement as they hurriedly ate. 

"If something were to happen to separate them," Oakshott commented, "I don't think anyone here would be shedding any tears."

"Lady Craye." Mrs. Salter snorted derisively. "I can't see how any lady can act like her and still deserve the title." She turned towards me, "I don't know how you dealt with it when you worked for her father."

"She is a complex and difficult young woman." I acknowledged. "Is he unaware of her temper?"

Mrs. Salter and Oakshott looked at each other significantly.

"It's difficult to be in the same mile and be unaware of her temper." Mrs. Salter noted wryly. "Aside from Lady Craye being an exceptional beauty that would turn any young man's head, he was partially raised by a certain other relative who speaks rage as a second language. It probably makes him feel at home."

I considered this. Oakshott's words about his valet needing to be discreet stuck in my mind. Of course, I am always discreet with my employers but there are... levels of discretion. I observed Mr. Wooster carefully the next day. I was intensely curious to see if he was going to actually see the thing through or not. I wasn't sure which I would want to see more. If he didn't, I would have continued in his employ until such a time as our working relationship reached its natural conclusion. But, I must confess, I would have lost some respect for the young gentleman. Now if he actually stole the package, that would put him directly into my hands. I half-wished for a companion to bet on the matter with, but it hardly needed such stakes to raise the drama of the moment. Mr. Wooster had one of the most open faces I'd ever seen - anyone watching him would have guessed he was up to something in a moment. _Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use._ Most of those around him acted as if Mr. Wooster acting jumpy and guilty were the norm. If the behavior of his friends and family after I entered his employ were any indication, perhaps it was.

Finally, he did the deed. I wanted to applaud the young man.  Would Mr. Wooster actively attempt to destroy the package? If it were destroyed, of course, there would not be much I could do. A good lighter could be used to burn it in the fireplace if you were willing to take the risk. Even without a fireplace, he could soak it in water in the tub. Bury it outside. There was a lake within easy walking distance (though this would require some subtlety and planning).  However, I saw nothing that appeared to be positive action after he left his room package-less. Perhaps he couldn't bring himself to do it - more likely, he couldn't think of anything.

After I helped Mr Wooster change into his evening suit (and noted him carefully making sure he held onto a particular key), I decided it was time to focus on the young under-gardener, John. I found him a serious young man with a fair touch of shyness.  After some friendly conversation and a mug of beer,  I quickly saw that, though unschooled and lacking of some refined quality he was intelligent, creative, knowledgeable about his profession and, best of all, he had that unlearnable something that turned what he did from a mere trade into an art.

"A valet's life tends to be rather isolated. Its good work but I can't settle down the way you probably could - do you have a sweetheart, John?" I asked jovially. John responded by blushing a bit and stammering that he wasn't good enough for a wife yet. "Nonsense." I said cheerfully, "it is a wife that lifts up a young man such as yourself.  I hear there's going to be a small servant's ball over at the Murgatoyds' - some of the staff are getting a ride with the chauffeur. You should go - nothing quite like a dance to find the right girl."

":Oh, no." The boy blushed. "I probably couldn't get the time away to go. There's always somethin' that needs doin'."

"I hear," I said casually. "that the Lady Craye's maid, Miss Rose, might be in attendance."

As I hoped, this got him to thinking.

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in askin'.  But even if I could go, I don't have a proper suit that's not 'alf dirt."

I eyeballed the young man - he was a similar height and frame as my employer. Perhaps an inch or two shorter, but definitely not significantly broader. I'd be doing London a favor by getting Mr. Wooster out of that suit.

"I can arrange a suit." I told him. "My employer has an old one that is still in good condition. It is a rather bold pattern but I think it would look well on you."

"Then there's one other problem. I don't know how to dance."

"I believe I could teach you well enough. I've assisted many a nervous young man preparing for an evening's entertainments."

"I've got to get to work. But I'll think on't."

As I returned to the main house, I heard Mr. Wooster's voice through an open window. My direct interactions with my employer thus far were rather limited. So, I stopped to listen.

"What did you want to talk to me about, old thing?" Mr Wooster was saying.

"I wanted you to hear it from me first." The other fellow sounded nervous. "Iris and I are engaged and the wedding plans are set. The banns will be read next week."  Could he be a former lover?  I found a comfortable spot and casually tossed a light tall candlestick on the ground so, if discovered, I could easily claim I were merely putting the object back into its place.

"Congratulations. I wish all the best for you." Mr. Wooster sounded genuine.

"I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings. I mean, I know you two were engaged..."

I didn't recognize the nervous voice, but I assumed it belonged to one of the other houseguests. 

"I'm engaged to Florence now." My employer chirped. "Didn't you hear?"

"Oh?" I heard the clink of ice in a glass and a gulp. Perhaps the young man was one of Florence's discards.

"But even if I wasn't, there would be no hard feelings. The girl changed her mind. I can't have hard feelings about that."

"We got engaged awfully quickly after you two broke it off, I didn't want you to think I was snake-in-the-grassing..."

"The thought never crossed my mind." 

There was another clink, and another gulp before the other young man spoke again.

"Bertie... I'm lying to you. I was fully aware you two were engaged. I was jealous and I was a snake - I want you to give me a sock to the jaw and get it over with."

There was a long silence. It lasted long enough that I finally gave in to the temptation to glance out the window, leaning over to get the candlestick so I could look. I was surprised to see Mr. Wooster was almost doubled over in silent laughter.

"That's just what she wanted you to do, you fathead." I finally heard him say, jovially, "She was making a gesture. Trying to work you up and get you to finally make a move. But I'm touched that you were so worried about me. I'm fine - there were no strong feelings on either side."

"Are you sure?"

I started walking back to his room, but I could still hear his voice.

"It was only a moment - a moonlit garden and warm summer night. I mean, who wouldn't want to be married to a pippin like your Iris, but the girl loves  _you_ , old man."

This conversation stayed in my mind as I prepared my employers room for the night. When he was ready to (as he put it) 'hit the sack', he carefully and clearly laid out exactly how he wanted things done and where I had discretion to use my judgement. When I made suggestions for doing things differently he listened to my reasoning, seeming to take my suggestions into account, even if he chose not to utilize them.  A fellow could get used to being treated with this level of respect.

I stayed around a moment as Mr. Wooster settled himself into bed.

"Did you need something, Jeeves?"

"Mr. Wooster, as a recently engaged man, I was wondering if you could tell me about how you and Lady Craye became engaged? I'm attempting to assist a rather shy friend of mine, but I have no recent experience in the subject."

"Well, you've come to the right fellow." I was surprised at the intensity of his response. I'd expected some pointed questions or even mild irritation but he was absolutely eager to give me advice. "The first thing is to make sure you have a proper garden to walk through. The garden here is lovely. I've become engaged," he seemed to count in his mind for a moment before giving up, "I've become engaged more than once because of a proper garden."

"I see, sir." I said cautiously. How often did the fellow become engaged?

"Does your friend have good reason to believe the girl shares feelings stronger than ordinary friendship?"

"Its difficult to say, sir. I've seen evidence the feelings are mutual. The two grew up together, so there's a shared history.'

"Excellent. Florence and I are in a similar situation - my uncle and her father were good friends so we spent loads of time together growing up. Now, I wasn't certain how Florence felt about me. I had the idea that she might have some warm feelings - some girls call you a fathead as a kind of love language, what?  And in the garden, looking at that lovely profile... it sort of slipped out. Which is really the best way to do it, because if you plan it out sometimes you get yourself too worked up and get all tongue tied."

I must confess to being a little amazed at the purity of his vapidity. She was pretty so he asked her to marry him. That seemed to be the extent of his thought process. 

"Thank you, sir. That was very informative." I grabbed his evening suit, "I'm going to brush your suit for tomorrow, sir."

And, like that, I had the key to the drawer in his room. I finished my duties, impatient to be finished so I could think about what I had heard. When I finally was in my own room, my mind wouldn't settle itself.  There was something there I was missing. Perhaps, I considered, I was thinking about this all wrong. I sat in the kitchen late into the night, drinking a cup of tea. Oakshott joined me, after his duties allowed.

"I can't sleep, either." Oakshott said grumpily. "Its going to rain in a few days or these old bones lie."

"The other day, we were speaking about Mr. Wooster and you made a comment that I can't seem to get out of my head." Oakshott sipped his own tea and waited. "You said a discreet valet would do well. I'm trying to pin down exactly how discreet?"

Oakshott thought about this as if choosing his next words carefully.

"Have you ever had any children?"

"This career doesn't tend towards marriage and settling down."

"Imagine the young master is the son you never had. As discreet as you would be with your own son." I felt like Oakshott had given me an odd riddle.  He seemed to recognize my bafflement. "If you stick with the young man, you'll see soon enough." He seemed to contemplate the idea for a moment. "I've caught him in the kitchen with his hand in the cookie jar or trying to add water to Mr. Wooster's brandy more than once. And when I caught him, he accepted his punishment without complaint. He never tried to set anyone else up to take the blame for his deeds. He was never an angel, but he is a good boy at heart. There's something... soothing about a simple straightforward child. I think, if you play your cards correctly, this position could be an excellent pre-retirement."

In the end, I decided to sleep and see what the morning brought. 

In the morning, I decided I only needed to concern myself with the few facts I had gleaned. Mr. Wooster and Lady Craye were mismatched - and it was Mr. Wooster who would be left miserable by the arrangement. He clearly had a tendency to get engaged impulsively and thoughtlessly for vapid reasons that involve situation and context more than actual strong feeling. He would forget about the engagement quickly enough if it were disrupted and, more importantly, he was showing himself to be a promising employer.

To unlock the drawer, purloin the manuscript and place it among my own possessions in the early morning was the work of a moment.  I met with the under-gardener after I finished my morning duties and, speaking most convincingly of the beautiful women who would be in attendance (using, naturally, descriptions of young Rose) convinced him he did indeed need to go to that dance. The head gardener (an old acquaintance of mine) not only gave him the time off, but slapped on the back cheerfully saying, with a twinkle in his eyes, "A young man can't live only to work." 

It was an ordinary day otherwise - I hinted strongly to Oakshott that it would be wise to plant a few seeds to increase the elder Mr. Wooster's anxiety about his manuscript. Oakshott knew me well and played his part perfectly. I predicted my employer wouldn't take the additional pressure well, and I seemed to be correct - the young man looked ready to jump at the sound of a pin dropping. If I played my cards right, Lady Craye breaking off the engagement would be a relief.

I found my duties unusually light, so I used my time to continue working on young John. The next step I had hoped to be easiest. I had taught many a friend, acquaintance, and employer how to make their way safely around a dance floor -  _Let us read and let us dance - two amusements that will never do any harm to the world._ I had forgotten what a painful lesson a dance lesson could be.

"I'm sorry." John had stepped squarely on my foot - again. "I've always had a problem with my right and my left." As he said this, he gestured to the ahead and then behind himself respectively. I had taught few as incapable of remembering the difference between forwards and backwards - much less right and left.

"Why don't you take a break and perform your duties. I'll think of something."

My feet needed a rest and I was in too much pain for my mind to work properly. The under-gardener went outside to check on the summer vegetables. I followed him to smoke and clear my head a bit. My employer was also outside, smoking on a bench in a particularly picturesque part of the garden chipping away at  _Types of Ethical Theory._ I disagreed with his taste in fiancées but I was impressed with his willingness and apparent desire to learn and grow. Her intellectual abilities were most likely part of her perceived charms, but there was something else there. Something else I couldn't quite put my finger on. I was lost in my thoughts for a minute, not fully realizing my own and the under-gardener's presence had been noticed until the young Mr. Wooster was almost to us.

I quickly threw down my gasper, hiding it under my heel.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Good afternoon, Jeeves."

"Did you require something, sir?"

"Yes, something to take my mind off that blasted book for a little while. The things we do for love, what?" He looked out at the under-gardener, who went between the young plantings, gracefully stepping around the carrots, peas, cucumbers and tomatoes. He developed a sly smile.  "Is this the fellow who was thinking about getting engaged?"

"Yes, sir."

"God bless him. How are things going?"

"We seem to have reached an impasse around dancing, sir."

"Two left feet? He can't be that bad, look at him in the garden." Mr. Wooster was correct. How can a fellow be so clumsy while dancing but still manage to step through the garden with such agility? "When I was at Eton, I couldn't remember Latin for the life of me. One of my teachers tried to teach me some Latin poetry because he thought the rhythm of it would help. It didn't really, but I still remember it.  _Od ET aMO, quaRID FACiam forTASse reQUIris, nescio....tummity tummity_.... well, you get the idea. My point being maybe if you put the dance steps into terms he's familiar with, it would help."

Then it hit me.

"Thank you, sir. I believe that is just the suggestion I needed."

"Always pleased to be of service." He said cheerfully, "I guess I'll get back to my book." He returned to his bench, waving at me happily after seating himself. I added "eager to please" to my mental list of Mr. Wooster's positive employer attributes.

I committed to memory the placement of the garden as the under-gardener finished his work and we returned to the indoors.

"I see I've been going about this all wrong." I said to the young gardener seriously.

"I'm just useless. I don't know why you care about me goin' to this dance so anyway...." I shushed him.

"Think of the floor as the garden." He didn't understand at first but I said "Carrots" and he moved right. I said "Cucumbers" and he moved left. I said "Peas" and he moved forward. "Tomatoes" he moved back. He soon understood perfectly, and I had him swinging a fine shoe around the room.

That matter done, I returned to the main house passing by young Edwin on my way to prepare Mr. Wooster for the evening meal.  Seeing the boy reminded me of one of the few specific stories about the young "Master Bertram" in the Ganymede book. He had stolen one of Lord Worpleston's best cigars and was either brazen enough or, more likely, simple-minded enough to fight with young Edwin before hiding away to smoke it. Young Master Edwin, naturally, tattled on the lad and his lordship chased Master Bertram around the house multiple times attempting to get at him with the hunting crop before the young man realized the advantage his long legs and youth gave him and set out for the countryside proper. It was quite an amusing story and I imagine it gave his lordship some much needed exercise.

The young Master Edwin wasn't my general preferred company but this mixed with my own memories of the lad made me wonder if he could be of use in way that would get me back a bit of my own for the trouble he caused with the shoes... The boy made things easy by approaching me himself.

"Hello! You're Bertie's new man, aren't you?" I acknowledged the truth of this. "I remember you." he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, "I think Bertie has been pinching things and blamin' it on his man."

"That's a very serious accusation, young man." I said severely. "What evidence do you have of this?" and Master Edwin was only too happy to describe the scene between himself and Mr. Wooster the previous day. It was amusing to imagine Mr. Wooster's panic on discovering the someone unexpected in his room and the young boy had a flair for remembering details - after a bit of probing, of course. I decided to utilize young Master Edwin. "Have you mentioned this to anyone else, yet?" the boy denied it. "Excellent. The proper etiquette here is to bring this to the attention to the elder Mr. Wooster. Its his decision on how to handle this and I'm sure he wouldn't want the matter spread around, regardless. Do you understand?" The boy nodded and ran off.

Since I had possession of the manuscript, involving Master Edwin would neutralize the error Mr. Wooster made in allowing himself to be seen with the package and would remove any doubt in the elder Mr. Wooster's mind as to the young master's innocence. But, additionally, watching the expressive Mr. Wooster squirm would be highly amusing. There was the minor possibility that, once aware that I possessed the manuscript, Mr. Wooster would demand the manuscript's return, but based on what I'd seen of the young man it seemed unlikely.

I waited and soon one of the footboys came running to my room to inform me that Mr. Wooster was ringing for me. I took my time gathering up the key to make sure that the elder Mr. Wooster had the time to examine every inch of the young Mr. Wooster's room. My plan went excellently and the young master was not only fine with me keeping the manuscript but seemed visibly relieved to have the matter taken out of his hands. Now I had the power to decide the young man's fate. The lady or the tiger? Or, in this case, the tiger or freedom? I had mostly decided, but the weight of what I was doing weighed on me. I began to feel deeply uncomfortable with my original intentions.  Mr. Wooster seemed to have an understanding of marriage that I would expect from a boy still in first school. I had assumed that any man willing to marry the Lady Craye would be a snake with equal poison. Perhaps pushing this marriage through was an unnecessary cruelty to the simple young man.

I sent the package the next day. She clearly didn't want it published and that would do well enough for vengeance purposes without causing any long term damage to anyone else - it was a harmless book that wouldn't cause nearly the scandal she imagined. No, the only person deeply alarmed would be her - and, as a bonus, I would be shortly depriving her of an excellent maid. I'd allowed myself to dwell on the matter of Lady Craye's rudeness to me for too long. I believe Nietzsche wrote, "Nothing on earth consumes a man more quickly than the passion of resentment." which goes to show you that even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

Now was the final step to assist Miss Rose and do England the favor of removing a particular check suit from circulation. I brought the suit to the under-gardener so I could make any minor adjustments needed. 

"Bit loud." he noted.

"That will only help." I noted. "You'll stand out - I've noticed that clothing can have a moral effect on a fellow. A bold suit often leads to a young man being bold."

He reluctantly tried it on. Once he got a look at himself in a full length mirror he softened. There were a few places it needed to be let out a bit and he was (as I suspected) an inch and a half shorter than Mr. Wooster but these were simple adjustments that I could make easily and I made the relevant marks. On the whole, the young man came to life in the suit. Mr. Wooster looked, to be frank, like a low rent comedian in the suit. However, it fit the under-gardener's darker coloring perfectly. He became a different man as he looked at himself in the mirror.  On Sunday morning, I personally assisted his preparation before I sent him off to the dance with a message that I instructed him to give Miss Rose. 

"Mr. Wooster asked me to pass this note to the Lady Craye's maid. I suspect he might be trying to involve the girl in a special treat for her ladyship. My employer and the Lady Craye are recently engaged - you know how these young men in love can be."  The note was, of course, nothing of the sort. I had engaged in a bit of deception and written as if the note were from the young man, too shy to admit his feelings in a different form, asking nothing more or less than a single dance.

I missed the under-gardener's return Sunday night and was too busy to check in with him on Monday as Mr. Wooster was anxious about looking his best when the Lady Craye arrived. I was ironing when Miss Rose suddenly appeared.

"You had this planned the whole time, didn't you?" She grinned at me.

"I don't know what you mean, miss." 

"I only have a minute before I have to go unpack her ladyship's things, so lets not be foolish. Firstly, I know John can barely write his name. Secondly, he told me all about Mr. Wooster's letter being a surprise for Lady Craye and was almost hanging over me to make sure it wasn't some lechery." She laughed. "He asked me to marry him as soon as I finished reading it, he was so anxious on the subject."

"I'm glad to hear it." I barely suppressed my own grin.

"I'll save my money with the Lady Craye and I think I can manage a little more easily knowing its only until John has a good position." She lowered her voice. "I overheard something at the dance that Mr. Wooster might want to know about."

"Oh?" I leaned in.

"I overheard her talking to Mr. Maxwell about a Mr. Nietzsche. Mr. Maxwell didn't seem to think Mr. Wooster would think much of him and she made a comment along the lines of if Mr. Wooster doesn't like it, he can lump it. I'm not sure who this Mr. Nietzsche is, but she seemed to think quite highly of him. Perhaps a little too highly?"

I'm pretty sure I understood what the girl had heard, even if she didn't.

"I'll keep it in mind, miss."

Mr. Wooster's little matter came out as I had hoped. I did my part by reminding the elder Mr. Wooster to call the publishing house as soon as I saw the Lady Craye return and her ladyship responded to the news much as expected. However, my employer was rather deeply distressed.  I have only seen him this distressed a few times since. In hindsight, I suspect it was the sense of unfairness of it that upset him as much as any feelings for Lady Craye.  The fact that he fired me outright was both startling and invigorating. The staff were so overwhelmingly positive I had been half-worried he was too slow to have any fire in him. The boy did have limits- this could be quite interesting.  I applied some words to guide him to the proper conclusion and left him to calm down on his own. There was a time I would have been angered enough by his firing me alone that I would have left before he awoke on the principle of the matter. However, age has taught me patience - _the years teach much which the days never know_. In the morning, as I'd hoped, my employer had a fresh view of the matter and surprised me by giving me explicit permission to get rid of the suit. I had planned to come up with a story of an accident while ironing but I now saw it was unnecessary. As I admitted to having already given away the suit, I understood the something else. I understood exactly what Oakshott meant.

 


	2. Honeymoon in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves and Bertie in New York  
> hint of Bertie/Corky  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using a story order for this chapter some people might find confusing since the books place Cyril in a later trip to New York. For details, I'm using the public domain versions from the Strand (mostly) for reference and my order is from both in-story cues and the original publishing order.

 

I sometimes wonder if I would have stayed in Mr. Wooster's employ as long as I have if we hadn't had the forced intimacy of that first year and a half in New. York City. I'd always wanted to visit New York sometime when I had the time to relax and enjoy it - I don't believe Whitman was being entirely complimentary when he said, "There is no place like it, no place with an atom of its glory, pride, and exultancy."  but he wasn't wrong. 

I was still learning my new employer. Keeping up with the young master's extraordinarily active social life would have been a struggle for the level of valet normally assigned to young men of his quality, but was a laughing matter to a man of my experience. An old employer of mine, Montague Todd scheduled his day from the moment he awoke to the moment he fell asleep - often triple booking meetings in case one fell through. "Time is money" he'd say (he was not an original man). On one particularly memorable occasion he met two rival mob bosses and a judge for the same lunch appointment. He almost started a gang war, ruined a court case and somehow ended up turning the whole debacle into a peace treaty between the two gangs and a particularly remunerative deal for the judge. It was alarming at the time to be sure, but it taught me a great deal about the power of appearing to have a strong negotiating position and the necessity of keeping fast feet in moving terrain. After work like this, keeping track of Mr. Wooster's little lunch dates, dinner plans and birthday parties for his Möbius band of friends was nothing.

My previous employers had problems that rivaled Sisyphus for predictability and difficulty - problems that they often had even less intention of solving, because they refused to look at the problem itself. Without giving examples that may identify my previous employers too directly - imagine Sisyphus hiring an army of servants to perform his eternal labor, and then complaining his only problem was their constant foot and knee injuries. In comparison, Mr. Wooster's problems were exceedingly simple. Mr. Farnsworth was in love with Miss Pilferton and Mr. Wooster wanted to introduce them to Mr. Farnsworth's advantage. I make a few inquiries, and find that Miss Pilferton played cricket in school and continued to be a substantial fan of the sport. It so happens Mr. Farnsworth played a village team. Mr. Farnsworth extended himself at a game - Miss Pilferton was visibly blushing and fanning herself when Mr. Wooster made the introductions. The engagement was announced within weeks. Mr. Wooster tipped me the change in his pockets when he heard the news. I used that money buy my niece Mabel a hat for her birthday that might be mistaken for fashionable, if one didn't have an eye for details.

Outside of his involvement in his friends lives, Mr. Wooster's personal habits were as regular as a clock. He awoke exactly eight hours after his head hit the pillow. I could plan out his breakfast to the minute. I take care of most of my duties in the morning out of the habit of a lifetime. Spend a relaxing morning drinking fine tea and smoking excellent cigarettes while perusing the newspaper from one end to the other - as I always promised myself I would one day.

On most mornings,  I have an interesting news item or instructive bit of trivia to feed him with his bacon and eggs.  Mr. Wooster wasn't challenged by my intelligence - if anything he seemed to think that it reflected well on his own.  He openly appreciated the effort as much as the effect. After drinking his tea, eating his breakfast and dressing for the day, he would perch himself on the piano bench and practice piano while I read his morning letters and telegrams out loud to him. The letters were usually from friends and travelling in Europe and America - they were rarely for him directly. Often they were letters carbon copied or mimeographed and sent in mass to everyone with the occasional personal note on a postcard. Telegrams tended to be from friends and family in town and were often demands for his time and attention. 

He always began his morning rapping out a few finger exercises to "wake himself up". Usually he played the same tune - I thought of it as his morning melody. He seemed to play it almost compulsively periodically throughout the morning, in between letters as a strange sort of punctuation.

"What song is that?"  I asked the second or third morning, "I can't seem to place it."

"Hmmm?" He said in the way he did when he was trying to seem nonchalant. "Oh, it was something I learned ages ago. I like the feel of playing it, sometimes. It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Oh, no sir. It sounded familiar." I took it that he didn't want me to know for some reason. Mr. Wooster often had motivations that were not what you expected them to be - though, I must emphasize his motivations were very direct and simple. He was not a man of complexity and secrets by any means. At this interval, I still couldn't believe the young man was as simple and straightforward as he appeared. I was looking for Mr. Wooster's angle; after all, we were still in the honeymoon period where both of us were on our best behavior. 

After his warm-ups he would play music he was learning but as soon as he was inspired, he would be changing up his tune to be what he considered "appropriate" often even stopping me to grab an old favorite from his collection. I could readily determine his thoughts about letters and letter-writers from his musical choices.

The only random ding in the regular clockwork of Mr. Wooster's life was the Drones Shakespeare Society. 

The first time Mr. Wooster told me about a Drones Shakespeare Society "emergency meeting", he looked for all the world like someone hiding something.

"Jeeves, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask that you take tonight off."

"Very good, sir."

"And, well.... could you make sure you have something outside of the apartment to do until about midnightish?" I did my best to not react, but he must have perceived my curiosity. "We get a little loud and rowdy sometimes."

"About Shakespeare, sir?" I asked pointedly. 

"I could give you a _per diem_ or a  _per_ _noctem_ or whatever the correct thing would be if you needed a few shillings..."  He wilted a bit. I showed the lad some sympathy.

"Of course not, sir. Would you prefer I call before I return?"

"That's not necessary, we're always done by midnight." He thumped out another round of his morning melody - a sound that has become so much a part of the background noise of my life that I barely heard it.

I wasn't looking forward to cleaning up the aftermath of whatever they were doing. From previous experiences with other employers, I was expecting spilled drinks, tinted powder in the bathroom, sequins stuck in the carpet - at best. I arrived instead to find...  A half dozen well thumbed copies of _Macbeth_ each sitting by a used glass, a full ashtray and Mr. Wooster sitting at the piano playing quietly. The third time I came home to this tame scene, I found myself grasping for some evidence of the club's "real" activities - glitter under the sofa, powder stains on the chair, lip rouge marks on a glass. Nothing. 

I'd seen enough of his friends to decide that if whatever he was doing wasn't disturbing the neighbors or leaving a mess, I didn't need to worry about it. In the time before we left for New York, there were three meetings of the Drones Shakespeare Society - all of them "emergency" meetings with no regular meetings.

One would be forgiven for believing Mr. Wooster lived like a goldfish - only dealing with what was directly in front of him, and going where instinct took him.  Whatever the source of his habits, instinct or the habit of a lifetime, his various club activities somewhat obscure the regularity of Mr. Wooster's habits; outside of those activities, he seemed to keep track of his many friends and acquaintances through a schedule he went through with a clockwork efficiency. On Mondays he focused on the fellows he'd known his whole life. On Tuesdays his friends from Eton. Wednesdays were chaps from Oxford. Thursday was for various club members he'd seen in passing during the week. Fridays were for meeting new people. His weekends varied in content but were almost certainly filled with Drones or family. There was, naturally, a great deal of elasticity in these groups but the basic framework was clear to anyone who took the time to look. 

Most importantly, for my purposes, Mr. Wooster's personal habits were exemplary. He was not one to spill soup on his shirts and get mysterious stains on his trousers. On the rare occasion he soiled his garments he'd fret so you'd think it was my personal clothing he'd damaged.

The only dark spot on an otherwise clear and pleasant job was the fact that Mr. Wooster was something of a style icon among his friends. Its unclear to me why or how, but when Mr. Wooster claimed a new accessory, I would see it pop up in varying levels of "bright and colorful" among those coming over for lunch. The worst offender was the Interclub Cufflink Society - a group that seemed to be a contest between the wealthy young men in Mr. Wooster's circle to see who could wear the ugliest and most expensive cufflinks. Mr. Wooster, naturally, scooped up the most offensive with relish. I tried to tell myself that the young man's wrists weren't my business. Even with an easy young man like my employer, expensive cufflinks disappearing would be cause for suspicion. The gold cufflinks molded to look like golfers with a diamond chip (the "cufflink of the month") broke me. They went behind the drawer - after the month had passed, I told myself, I would pop them into the pocket of an old coat. This was as much of a concession as I could allow.

* * *

My entry in the club book on the elder Wooster's manuscript was already a legend at the Junior Ganymede. The publisher, recognizing the old man's demise was likely imminent, had rushed out a small printing of _Recollections of a Long Life,_  managing to get the first run out the week of his funeral. Every member that could grab a copy was eagerly devouring the elder Wooster's book. A few jokingly asked me to sign their personal copy.

Mr. Wooster eagerly perused the draft copy he'd been sent. I advised my young employer against reading the material directly before the funeral, but he pshaw'd at me saying he'd attended many funerals without issue. He later confessed that he had to fight the giggles the entire service, because every time he saw this His Grace or Lord so and so looking serious and sincere he'd remember an amusing story about him from the book. 

"I had to bite the inside of my cheek until it almost bled when Lord Worpleston himself showed up from France. I suspect he must be under the careful eye of a certain loony doctor."

"Sir?" 

"I'm surprised you didn't know, once being in his employ and all..." Mr. Wooster then regaled me with the story of how supposedly my former employer had a mental breakdown and ran off to France.

"Sir, I believe you are thinking of Lord T***** - his lordship has not returned from France in recent memory."

"Am I? I could have sworn it was Lord Worpleston. I remember when it happened vividly - Florence slapped me and called me a fathead when I tried to comfort her."

"I'm reasonably sure, sir."

"Well, as you say. You were absolutely right, I was worried I was going to guffaw and incur a aunt's wrath. Never a move without your advice, Jeeves." 

I had, in fact, recently added this story to his section of the Junior Ganymede book when George Webb sidled up to me with a drink in his hand.

"You decided to keep him?" George had a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

"I found him acceptable for continued employment." I noted dryly. "For the present."

"Well, well, well, perhaps the young man has hidden depths one wouldn't expect. I'd never expect you to put up with someone who has nothing to do all day, but I believe it was Oscar Wilde who once wrote,  _To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual._ "

"Even by this standard, Mr. Wooster is no intellectual. I don't think he has ever done nothing in his entire life. He is constantly acting and reacting. Even in moments of repose, he is planning lunches and selecting ties for dinner all while struggling to complete a simple crossword puzzle with the intensity of a businessman figuring his taxes. " 

"Oh, I see. He makes up for in his personal defects by keeping you busy." George knew me well. I had high standards for my employers, moving on if I find an employment situation not quite to my taste. "You're going to get bored, Reginald. You don't have patience for out and out stupidity." George never had a taste for the personal side of service. In a friendly debate over whether we served the man or the job, George once declared he would serve an empty suit if its payments went through every quarter. I, for my part, argued that an ideal working situation is not unlike a good marriage. 

"Supposedly," George grunted, "he was very fair in recommendations and annuities for the staff. How long do you think it will take him to get through his Uncle's money?"

"His allowance from his Uncle was enough to keep the debtors at bay. I think he'll manage." I noted crisply.

"Oh yes and that book of his uncle's is making enough money to keep him in debt-free silk for another year or two I imagine. Lady Craye will be green that she didn't marry the fellow next time she needs pocket money. Did you really slip him a mickey and take the book manuscript right out of his hand to give to the postman?"

 I had no inclination to regale George with the tale when he was in such an ironic mood.

"A few facts might have been distorted in the retelling." I ventured to change the subject. "Has his Grace given you trouble, recently?"

"No more than his usual attempts to take a pound off of my packet for a shilling infraction." George shook his head.

"You should leave, George. There are plenty of employers who would give you what you're worth without fighting over every bit. Now that Rose is married..."

"Reginald, when employers with excellent references from former butlers drop into my lap with envelopes of cash, I'll consider it. Until then, I have a staff I hand-selected. I know the way his Grace's mind turns. Its not all bad. Its..." He looked troubled. "I tell you, Reginald, the way he treats that nephew of his is obscene.  Instead of giving him a proper allowance and setting him up in London, he's sending the boy off to Colorado of all places - as if he were a cousin a few times removed biting his ear not his closest living relation."

"I wouldn't send a nephew of mine away like that."

"Nor, I. Sometimes these people are so cold blooded - its like they're a different species." He shook his head and took a deep drink.

I hoped to lighten the mood.

"How **is** dear Rose doing?" 

George's expression softened a bit.

"The new Mrs. Tillmancouldn't be happier. How is dear little Mabel doing?"

I had been in charge of my niece Mabel's care since the Great War took her father, and grief took her mother. She was a tall and hearty girl with a pleasant face and demeanor; it was no great effort to find her a good spot as a parlor maid to keep her out of trouble. The daughter of the house had recently married and Mabel had been promoted in turn.

"She is doing well as the new Lady W********'s personal attendant. Quiet, pleasant household, and she, naturally, was already familiar with her ladyship from her maiden days." I allowed my reserved to soften a bit. "Thank you for your assistance, George. I think your word to Thomas that she was ready carried a lot of weight."

"Anything for my favorite niece of yours, Reginald."

"She's my only niece, George."

"Just as well," George noted with a grin.

I felt more certain of the upward trajectory of Mabel's future than I ever thought I could. If I were attempting to sort my life into a pleasing plot - this would be the pride before the fall.

* * *

Believe it or not, Mr. Wooster has created jazz bands, formed theatre companies, arranged almost countless marriages, and been the force behind more than one theatrical performance - simply by seating the right two people each other at the right moment. He had a talent for it that made him friends everywhere he went. This was the good side of his nature - in a philosophical moment, I'd go so far as to say this was his place in the world.  But there were also "friends" who appeared out of the blue helping themselves to the contents of his pockets. I found it necessary to step in more than once on his behalf, screening his visitors more aggressively. One of the worst, a Mr. Foljame, made a habit of haunting Piccadilly waiting for my employer. He finally disappeared after I made sure he  was overheard trying to hire me out from under Mr. Wooster. In fact, he offered me the cash in hand he'd finagled from Mr. Wooster outright as an advance. It was at least twice my salary at the time. In my younger years, I would have been severely tempted purely out of admiration for his boldness. Life taught me the lessons of following such impulses. If a man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams, then I am an old man, indeed _._ That would almost certainly be the last money I'd see until he found another rich fellow to latch onto. I later learned Mr. Wooster had cut Mr. Foljame so pointedly that the gentleman was effectively blackballed from half a dozen clubs. I was deeply touched.

For a young man of Mr. Wooster's class, London is effectively a large small town. His smallest misstep would be gossip fodder for his lessers, blackmail content for the greedy.  In New York City, Mr. Wooster would merely be one more wealthy young man among many. He could take a lover, take a dozen - do whatever he does at his Drones Shakespeare Society meetings to his hearts content. I would observe him in this place, far away from friends and family who would normally be a restraining influence and watch the man that unfolds before me. Yes, New York was the place where I was finally going to see the true Bertram Wooster.

Due to the speed at which we left, I didn't have time to make sure I had reading material for the voyage.  Mr. Wooster's discarded copy of  _Types of Ethics_ became an intimate friend during the weeks I spent in my cabin, waiting for the young man's ring. It was mostly overwritten academic speak, but there were moments when the author opened the world and showed you its beating heart. I was particularly intrigued by his summation of Spinoza's philosophy of balance. There were times when, while putting a room into order, I felt like I was helping to order the world in some small way. I found my mind returning to these thoughts often in the coming months. Mr. Wooster, for his part, kept himself entertained most of the time with fellow passengers, becoming engaged to a particularly appealing young woman who turned out to be the daughter of a prominent temperance activist. There was some amusing incidents but the matter ended shortly enough before shore that there were no awkward scenes and, I believe, he and the young lady in question became quite good friends.

After it was established that it was wiser to remain outside of England for an unknown length of time, Mr. Wooster was welcomed open-armed into the artistic circles that had so quickly embraced his cousin.  Mr. Corcoran, quite notably, became a fixture in Mr. Wooster's life very quickly. Monday was for clubs - and lunch with Mr. Corcoran. Tuesday was for visiting with friends from the theater and meeting Mr. Corcoran for drinks in the afternoon. My employer was always either arriving with Mr. Corcoran or about to leave with him.  Mr. Corcoran bore no great resemblance to the Arrow Collar man, he was not the best looking of Mr. Wooster's friends, but he was the one Mr. Wooster desired.

If you asked me for examples, I wouldn't be able to give them. There was nothing I could complain about - as far as what I personally witnessed was concerned, Mr. Wooster could have been Hippolytus - one who knows not how _love distills desire upon the eyes_ , nor how love brings _bewitching grace into the heart._  But I knew the same way I knew that his favorite suit was the blue with the red stripe, even though its not the most flattering, best fitting or even the most comfortable of his suits. It was a gut feeling - and I've worked in service long enough to know when to follow those.  _He who has a true idea, knows at that same time that he has a true idea, nor can he doubt concerning the truth of the thing._

Even as far as I suspected Mr. Wooster's intentions, I could find no objections. Mr. Corcoran was not too far from Mr. Wooster's class in American terms, with enough access to money to not become dependent on my employer. His debts could be bought cheaply enough, if he needed to be brought to heel. An artist who is allowed a bit of bohemian behavior, but is also self-aware and discreet. If I were to hand select a lover for my employer, I would have listed Mr. Corcoran's every attribute. I approved.

Mr. Corcoran stopped appearing rather sharply not even a few weeks into our tenure in New York.  After several days of sending unanswered messages and checking in at the studio, my employer fretfully sent me to make one last inquiry.  The young man looked appropriately embarrassed and told me that he was busy but he and Mr. Wooster would have lunch at some unspecified point in the future. He would call. He said this in a way that suggested that he was going to be too busy for this lunch until sometime after Mr. Wooster returned to London. 

After I delivered this response, Mr. Wooster stopped his playing for a long moment, before pulling out a new sheet of music he'd picked up that morning and talking about it with absolute absorption. I looked for further signs Mr. Wooster was hurt. If he felt anything more than missing a friend he enjoyed spending time with, it wasn't obvious.

* * *

My employer and I had different interests, to say the least.  This was an advantage - one likes to keep ones private and professional life separate. Its difficult to enjoy a talk knowing your employer is two rows away. It was purely by chance I encountered him at an off-Broadway production of  _Hamlet._  I later learned the production featured several of my employer's intimate friends and an ex- _fiancée_.

"I was hoping I would see someone I knew here," He explained, laughing, "I don't think I realized quite how off-Broadway this was. Corky and I were supposed to go together and maybe start an American branch of the Drones Shakespeare Society at the club here, but I haven't been able to get a hold of him..." For a fleeting moment sadness washed over his face. It disappeared quickly. "Nothing like seeing a bit of the to be or not to be with a good friend. How does that bit go?  _In one of the Bard's best-thought-of tragedies, our insistent hero, Hamlet, queries on two fronts about how life turns rotten._ " He laughed to himself as if he were making a joke. "It's a thingummy for the To-be or not to be - I memorized it once." I couldn't quite follow him so I nodded and said it was good to see him, hoping he'd take the hint and allow me to go on my way. "I suppose you would rather not hang around your employer on your night off. I know, I'll let you have my tickets. I imagine you have someone you could call to see a show."

For a moment, I almost take him up on his offer. I do, in fact, have several acquaintances who would have intelligent and informed opinions about the performance I would love to hear. I imagined, rather ridiculously, being at the theatre with Mr. Wooster being rather like sitting in church with a small child. I imagined constantly having to get him to sit still and not ask silly questions. But my conscience wouldn't let me get that look of fleeting sadness out of my mind.

"I would be honored to see  _Hamlet_  with you, sir."

It was a very informative evening, in more ways than one.

Most importantly: Mr. Wooster didn't only want a valet - he wanted a friend and an ally.  I made a point of speaking to my employer more about his life, asking question and allowing him to speak about his day until it became automatic for him to give me a rundown of his daily totterings and staggerings as he continued his morning tradition of playing the piano. He played something new every morning now as I read through the inexpensive postcards and two or three sentence letters from his friends at Drones.

"Need to keep the digits limber, Jeeves."

I brought more personality into my service, speaking to him about my life when it seemed appropriate and giving him my genuine opinions on occasion.  George would have laughed at me. But it's different when you're the head of a large household. The service of a valet is much more intimate - one wants to like and respect ones employer. I found myself developing a respect for the young man - he wasn't much more than what you saw on the surface but he worked to keep that surface immaculate. There's a kind of integrity in that I could appreciate - the world has plenty of deep thinkers wearing sweaters and patched coats, if my employer finds satisfaction in wearing a well turned out suit, it keeps a kind of balance to the world that I could easily support.

When Mr. Corcoran sent a telegram that he was hoping he could meet Mr. Wooster for lunch I cheerfully did as he pleased.  I was quite offended on Mr. Wooster's behalf when Mr. Corcoran appeared with a chorus girl on his arm. But I was also frustrated. Without the safe outlet of Mr. Corcoran, Mr. Wooster might well get involved with bad crowds. Start prowling the docks. I am embarrassed to admit these thoughts now, but I do so in the spirit of honesty. I worked for Mr. Wooster, not Mr. Corcoran. I knew whose interest I was going to watch. The best thing to do was to break things off between the couple, leaving the heartbroken young artist to gratefully run to the friend who had tried so hard to help him. Mr. Wooster was a tender hearted young man who had already forgiven and forgotten the fretful days he spent worrying about his friend. I had not.

I gave the girl a mulligan. She was a beautiful girl, experienced enough in the world that if she didn't see her advantage with an old bachelor who believed she was enamored with him, well... She would. 

Mr. Wooster had spent more money on Mr. Corcoran's engagement than I'd ever seen him spend on any individual _fiancee_. I assumed as soon as the way was cleared, Mr. Wooster would act quickly to resume his former relationship with his friend. I was wrong. I gently prodded him about Mr. Corcoran's whereabouts with no results. It seemed the matter was dead in the water. I found myself wondering if I had severely misunderstood Mr. Wooster's designs.

"What Corky needs from me right now," Mr. Wooster noted, gulping down his breakfast, "is a strong dose of the old Absent Treatment."

I made notes in my now tattered copy of  _Types of Ethics_ until it almost became a journal of sorts. It seemed less that I had acted on my own, than more redirected events slightly to come to a different conclusion. Perhaps I was indeed blameless - she could have formed a genuine attachment to the young man and performed her part properly. But, on the other hand, did I deserve the benefit of any good from my actions? I would argue that I probably did young Mr. Corcoran a favor. Based on the quickness with which the first child came, I suspect I helped him avoid a grievous error.

Shortly after Mr. Corcoran disappeared, a cable arrived from Mr. Little.

"A cable from Mr. Little?" My employer stopped playing. 

"It appears so, sir." 

He tapped out his morning melody absently.

"I hope the lad hasn't gotten himself into some sort of trouble." 

Mr. Little had lost all of his quarterly allowance on the wrong horse - he was hoping Mr. Wooster would allow him the use of his apartment.

"What do you think, Jeeves?"

"You know Mr. Little better than I do, sir. Do you think he's likely to snoop through your things or steal?"

"No, no. But he's likely to wear one of my suits without having it properly brushed or turn one the couch cushions to hide a stain."

"I have acquaintances who would be willing to check on your apartment, sir, for a small fee."

"Excellent. And tell them to not be afraid to make sure Mr. Little doesn't get too comfortable."

I was friendly with the elder Mr. Little's valet and made inquiries if he could, for an amount to be discussed later, check on the young man and make sure the apartment remained in good repair.  I didn't think much of it, at the time. Mr. Wooster was very generous with his friends and Mr. Little was a frequent recipient of Mr. Wooster's largess - he received many of Mr. Wooster's discarded suits, for example. Mr. Little was not shy about taking possession of my employer's old suits, and I rather suspected he praised Mr. Wooster's appearance in clothing thinking more of what would flatter himself.  I gave no more thought to the matter at the time.

Mr. Wooster was not done in rebelling in his personal apparel. He persisted in dressing the perfect gentleman except in one horribly asynchronous detail. Not in the thoughtful manner of those experienced in the language of Attire but the thoughtless random manner of a child going through clothing in the attic. I had managed to quash his worst habits without too much trouble - though I must confess I came close to caving when I saw actual tears in his eyes after he realized I had discarded his cloth covered boots. Recently though, he had become more stubbornly insistent on getting his own way. He insisted, to be specific, on getting a hat worn by an actor (who will remain unnamed) who had might have had rumors of a particular kind swirling around him. I, naturally, couldn't directly tell my employer those rumors. This would be mildly irritating but manageable, however the hat did not match the rest of his clothing at all. I don't think its too much to ask that after months of steering him correctly in matters of apparel that occasionally I should have my judgement assented to on principle of the thing. I made the scene as painful as possible without directly crossing any lines. He still bought the hat, but I could tell he felt my disapproval heavily.  If my employer wanted personality with his service, he would get it.

It is not only that I held anything against a man choosing to wear an unusual hat or a pink tie, it strained credulity that a man as occupied with his clothing as my employer would choose accessories so unsuited...  I developed the idea that Mr. Wooster was dressing to attract a lover. I was not intimately familiar with the New York pansy scene, but I knew enough to be suspicious of any strongly divergent clothing choices.

Its possible I encouraged Lord Pershore to yield to temptation while he had the opportunity - hoping that having a charge to care for would curtail whatever unknown vulgar activities Mr. Wooster was thinking about partaking in. The main thing it did was remind me what an excellent young man my employer was - whatever Mr. Wooster's vices, he kept them quiet and private. In the end, I realized I was being ridiculous. Mr. Wooster would live his life as he pleased. I would do my job as necessary. My job was not to guide him, but to resign once I inevitably saw something I should not. I liked the young man, but I also felt confident at this interval that when I caught Mr. Wooster in a compromising situation, I could readily negotiate fare back to London and a fat settlement on my contract. I would shoot high, but not cruelly so - he would say yes to the first number I threw out without thinking.

I took the first opportunity to remove Lord Pershore from the equation and telegrammed Mr. Wooster that his lordship was no longer present. My telegram passed Mr. Wooster on the return train.  There was something odd in how he rambled about the two days he spent in Long Island feeling like a week, but he otherwise seemed his usual self. I was pleased when he gave up his hat, and even a little hopeful that perhaps it truly was about the clothing for him.

Still, after I saw the way Mr. Wooster reacted to the news of the of the littlest Worple, I prepared myself for Mr. Corcoran to once again become a fixture in the Wooster life. He did not. They reconnected, they remained friendly, but Mr. Corcoran remained merely one friend among Mr. Wooster's many artistic friends that he saw on Thursdays. 

I had thought I would see the real Mr. Wooster in New York, and he was the man I saw in London - nothing more or less than exactly what he appeared to be. Whatever drew him to Mr. Corcoran had passed, like his many short lived passions for young women.  I have never once walked in on Mr. Wooster telling an inappropriate story. Any hints at anything more intimate than a walk through the garden elicited blushes until one could believe that was the world. Shortly after discovering Eden, I discovered what I believed to be the snake. My employer had mentioned a friend, a "Mr. Todd" out on Long Island - I didn't immediately make the connection. Todd was a common enough surname in America and based on his father (a previous employer, Montague Todd), I would have assumed the younger Todd would have been in the middle of the fast scene in New York, not lazing about as a poet in a summer cottage in Long Island.

I was as shocked as I had ever been in my career when I saw Montague Todd's son - as confirmed a bachelor as has ever lived - step into my employer's apartment and proceed to speak to him with a startling intimacy, even by American standards. I knew the best thing to do was to send Mr. Todd back to Long Island as quickly as possible. The elder Mr. Todd could talk the habit off of a nun - Mr. Wooster might be naive and unworldly but he was certainly no nun. The suddenness of Mr. Wooster's return to New York and his odd rambling about Long Island took on a different shade.

Mr. Todd was an open invert in the days when I had worked for his father, and I had personally bailed him out more than once. He knew money - he knew the value of Mr. Wooster's bank account better than my employer could comprehend. If he had debts, they were almost certainly extensive. I wouldn't have been surprised to find debt exiled him to Long Island. He wasn't merely indiscreet but strikingly unabashed. I imagined, like his father, he would be shrewd enough but otherwise unremarkable in character and person. To me, he was the doorway that could easily lead a malleable young man to a life of ruin. 

I used the skills I learned from Montague Todd to bring about a decision that was beneficial to all and ended with Mr. Todd safely out in Long Island. 

I do not want to give the impression that I viewed all of Mr. Wooster's intimate New York friends were potential lovers. I never for a moment imagined that Mr. Bickerson, for example, was an object of any feelings stronger than ordinary friendship. I rather relieved to find that the nephew of His Grace (his Grace being the employer of my good friend George Webb)  had chosen to stay in New York where things were somewhat civilized rather than out in Colorado.  Mr. Wooster needed a friend of his own class and I'd heard nothing but good things about the boy from George. When I found that his Grace was arriving, I'll confess that I utilized this opportunity to use his Grace's nephew to get under his skin a bit. His Grace very much he hated the attention his title attracts. The press attention, of course, but also the people who go slackjaw and in awe in the face of a title. If the Birdsburg scheme had succeeded, I had every intention of selling the story to the press myself, as the situation had the potential to be most entertaining. It was satisfactory in a way I hadn't experienced before in my position - and for this fun easy work, I was rewarded for my troubles both monetarily and with my employers gratitude. I felt, in the end, doing his Grace a little harm, and Mr. Bickerson a little good, I had balanced the scales somehow. At the very least, I had decreased the horrors of the world by a fraction in getting Mr. Wooster to shave his mustache.

Once I allowed myself to accept that a cigar was almost always a cigar with Mr. Wooster, it was a simple matter to fine tune my managing of him to account for this. The more I observed Mr. Wooster, the more I believed he was truly as innocent as first man - with no knowledge of the difference between good and evil. The more I assumed his actions stimmed from the base instincts of seeking comfort and avoiding pain, the more accurate my predictions about his potential behavior became and the easier he became to manage. 

In fact, he had become manageable to the point of being a bit dull when Miss Rockamateller arrived. Her arrival was exactly what was needed to liven things up a bit. Watching Mr. Wooster struggle with her was most amusing, until I realized that she intended to stay in his apartment. Even with the attendant inconveniences  I almost relished the opportunity to have a private conversation with the young Mr. Todd.

It was under Miss Rockamateller's watchful eye that the worst happened: I received a personal cable. A deeply alarming cable, no less, from my Aunt Judith, declaring in greatly abbreviated form that our family name was ruined and the necessity of immediately cutting Mabel out of hearts and minds.

That hung heavily on my mind that evening when I asked Mr. Todd for permission to speak freely.

"Of course, Jeeves." 

"Very well, sir. I wanted to make sure you knew, that while Mr. Wooster might superficially appear alone and vulnerable in a strange country, he has powerful friends who will take a very keen interest if Mr. Wooster were to be," I thought of Mr. Wooster's strange rambling about his time in Long Island as I cleared my throat, " _imposed_ upon."

Mr. Todd looked stunned for a moment. I was worried for a moment I had misjudged him severely before he burst into laughter.

"My good man! I am so glad that someone has finally taken a proper interest in Bertie's affairs. Firstly, may I assure you that I have no intention whatsoever of doing anything to hurt Bertie. He is the most delightfully shallow fellow I've ever met - to distort that clear mirror would be like destroying a living work of art. Secondly, let me give you a list of names."  Of the dozen or so names he gave me, I was already screening out several. Two of them would be screened out in the future, and I memorized the rest to steer my employer away as necessary. I took him at his word, for the moment.

"Is there anything else I need to know, sir?"

Mr. Todd considered this.

"There is a fellow you need to watch in England, but I imagine you must know all about him by now. Bertie isn't very subtle about it."

"Very well, sir."

I thought over Mr. Todd's words. I mentally sifted through the young men who frequented Mr. Wooster's London apartment see if any stood out in memory. No one came to mind - I could not even pinpoint Mr. Wooster's closest friend. No particular face stood out to me with an _ecce homo._

I didn't contemplate this matter for long. I must confess, I was distracted by the concerns about my niece.  A cable from Mabel followed, informing me in less than a dozen characters that she had left service, was safe and a letter would follow.  I knew both Aunt Judith and my dear Mabel well enough to be concerned without panicking.  The older woman was often dramatic - a more informative and calm letter would soon follow from Mabel.

Still, my lapse was inexcusable. If I my mind wasn't filled with these personal matters, I might have noticed how Mr. Todd quickly redirected my attention. Perhaps it would have occurred to me that the poet and I might have very different ideas of what constituted... hurting Mr. Wooster. As it was, I finished up the matter with Mr. Todd with a sense of urgency.  I needed to be back in England with Mabel as soon as possible.

The day Mr. Todd left, Mr. Wooster let a shriek from his room. I had been prepared for this. While I did my best to protect Mr. Wooster's best clothing, Mr. Todd cut a very different figure. Some things were irretrievably damaged. If it happened that the waistcoat with the mauve silk lining was among the victims - well, Mr. Wooster would understand the necessity. 

I entered the room to discover Mr. Wooster glowing with happiness - holding a pair of purple socks.

"Look at the gift Rocky left for me!" He read the note Mr Todd left with them. " _Sorry about your waistcoat, Bertie. I hope this makes up for it._ Its the sweetest thing. I was about to give away that waistcoat. But these socks are priceless."

I am still convinced Mr. Todd did this as his little revenge for warning him off my employer. 

"I see, sir. Will you be needing anything else, sir?" 

"I'll be dressing for dinner, Jeeves. And," he said with the air of one following a holy quest, "I will wear my new socks."

"Will you be dining in then, sir?" 

"Oh no." He got the glint in his eye that I've come to think of as his rebellious look. "After being cooped up in a hotel all this time, I'm going to get properly dressed and go out tonight."

"Very well, sir." My voice did not disguise my opinion. 

Those socks hurt my very soul. If it were only Mr. Wooster, I could almost live with it and put it to personal eccentricity. But, in London, there would be the Drones. If they saw Mr. Wooster in purple socks, it would be only a matter of time before I'd be seeing a dozen shades of mauve, followed by the inevitable escalation: burgundy, magenta - things might even get as far as _goldenrod_. This was a matter that needed to be nipped in the bud quickly and neatly.

This was the first true test of my Theory of Mr. Bertram Wooster. He sought comfort and avoided pain. If I denied him comfort and allowed him to stew in his soup, he would soften and - when the plan I had underway to take care of Mr. Bassington-Bassington inevitably came to a satisfactory conclusion, he would accept the loss of his socks as a small price for finally getting the comfort he sought. Regardless of whether or not I kept magenta socks out of Drones, I needed to get back to London.

Shortly after I judged Mr. Wooster to be ready to let go of his socks, I received a letter clarifying the matter with my little Mabel.  John Skully (the elder Mr. Little's valet) worked with my friend, George Webb, to make sure little Mabel had someplace safe to go.  They had decided it was best to leave me uninformed of the situation while I was in New York. It seemed there had been an unpleasant scene in the W******* household. Mabel insisted she wasn't harmed by Lord W******* in any manner, but was equally insistent she would not return to service.  For the last six months she had been staying in unused rooms in the virgin's quarters at Pounceby Gardens with Miss Watson acting as chaperone. She chose to not inform the rest of the family, thinking they would be unsympathetic. She was correct. Aunt Judith discovered Mabel working as a mannequin model and branded her a harlot - the poor girl lost her job immediately.  The elder Mr. Little was unaware of Mabel's presence in the house and would continue to be unaware as he was bedridden with a bad case of gout. A photo of Mabel was enclosed - a professional portrait she'd had taken as part of her modeling work.  There was no doubt about it - in the year I had been gone, she had blossomed into a beauty.


	3. The Drones Shakespeare Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Non-explicit Bingo/Bertie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should acknowledge here that "Army Nurse" is a real book written by an author who got permission to use Rosie Banks as her pen name - I don't know the real plot of the book or if it has a happy ending.

It did not take much to convince Mr. Wooster is was time to return to London. He was already making noises about wanting to get some bets in on the last few of the Classics. He seemed satisfied enough that Mrs. Gregson's most recent letters had no more than the usual accusations of laziness and destruction of civilization. I suspect that if he had read in-between the lines, he would have been more wary. Mrs. Gregson's letters contained many pointed references to the next generation.

I would have expected my worries about my niece to weigh down the trip back, but the boat was filled with American businessmen so Mr. Wooster turned to me for entertainment and conversation. His conversation was like a dime store novel - diverting, predictable at times and quite lively but with no real depth.  Mr. Wooster had no patience for discussing anything more difficult than a crossword puzzle.

An academic (Mr. Carter who had some compelling ideas about the nature of the collective unconscious) had seen me with Mr. Wooster so often he had supposed me to be the young man's father. Through this misapprehension,  I made the acquaintance of an island of intellectuals travelling among sea of businessmen. I must confess that I did not correct their unspoken assumptions. During the time Mr. Wooster kindly allowed me for my own pursuits, I enjoyed the company of men who could discuss Freud without snickering and received several intriguing book suggestions.

Towards the end of the cruise when one of them directly referred to Mr. Wooster as my son, I confessed my true status to the group, and while they expressed some surprise and insisted it made no difference, I noticed a slow change in my treatment and I respectfully bowed out while I had some dignity. I was smoking a cigarette on the deck thinking some rather brown thoughts when Mr. Wooster came around unexpectedly. I automatically threw down my cigarette and stepped on it.

"You don't have to do that, Jeeves. You're on your own time."

"Of course, sir." I made no effort to recover my cigarette.

"Did they find you out?"

I was a little surprised, I had not yet learned to fully appreciate that Mr. Wooster makes up for his intellectual decencies with a sharp social eye.

"I did not seek to deceive them." I said honestly.

"When I was almost my full height at 13, I didn't mean for people to think I was older than I was either. But I also didn't go out of my way to correct people. Mr. Carter asked me some questions about where my father got his schooling and I thought it was rather odd line of questioning until I finally realized...."

"Sir, I..." I was rather embarrassed - I could not imagine it was a pleasant experience for him.

"I didn't out you, Jeeves. I told him the truth, that you are one of the most intelligent men of my acquaintance."

"Sir..." I no longer remember what I intended to say, only that it wasn't, "Sometimes when I put your clothing in order, it feels like I am putting the world in order in a small way." I had not verbalized this thought to anyone. I had let out a small part of my true self to my employer - a man who has almost certainly never had to clean in his life. I prepared myself for a glib joke or curt dismissal.

"I like that." He said simply. He put out his hand as if to put it on my shoulder, but then seemed to think better of it, waving weakly. "I'll let you get back to that cigarette."

The next day, Mr. Carter offered me his card with his open office hours.

"I truly enjoyed speaking with you, Reginald." It would have been pleasant enough if he had not offered me a job directly after. I did idly consider it; but, in the end, until Mabel was safely married I preferred the safety of an employer like Mr. Wooster. Besides, academics don't even dress properly for dinner.

On the day we reached shore, I was half regretting the decision. Mr. Wooster somehow had managed to acquire a necktie that was decorated with hand-painted pineapples. He was wearing it despite my clear disapproval.

"You know, Jeeves, you've really been feudal these past couple of weeks. Keeping the young master entertained and all. I'll let you get rid of one article of clothing..."

"Your tie." I said without hesitation.

"Which tie?"

"The one you are wearing." Mr. Wooster could be a bit thick sometimes, but he usually perceived when I particularly disliked an item.

He held up the end of the tie.

"This tie? Why, whatever is wrong with this tie?"

I caught the start of a grin and I realized that he was having fun with me. 

"Of course, sir. I was quite mistaken, You should wear that to Drones."

"You wouldn't allow that would you, Jeeves?" He removed the item in question. "Come on, man. You know you already have some plan about how you're going to destroy it. Let me enjoy this one."

I decided to cut them up with a pair of scissors, and, after he put on the replacement tie I had brought in my pocket, we scattered the pieces to the winds. 

"Why did you have a tie in your pocket, Jeeves?" He asked after a moment.

"Lets just say, I had a feeling something was going to happen to the tie you were wearing, sir." I replied.

* * *

The afternoon arrival found a letter from Mr. Todd already sitting in the mailbox. This, in and of itself wasn't cause for concern, though it made me suspect that Mr. Todd and I had not reached the understanding I had hoped. Mr.Wooster was tired after our journey and asked that I read him his letters.

The letter, and every other letter Mr. Todd sent Mr. Wooster, appeared to be an innocuous description of of the wildlife of Long Island. They had a pleasing rhythm that made them easy to read aloud that reminded me disturbingly of a hypnosis induction.  One could not find fault with the supposed subject of his letters - I believe this first one had a vivid description of rabbits preparing for winter. But the devil, as they say, was in the details. There was something evocative in the way he described the rabbits nibbling on each others ears and nestling deep into their dens under a thick blanket of snow. Subtle enough to leave some doubt, but direct enough that it took all of my training to read through without a blush. For it to be waiting on our arrival, he had to have sent it before Mr. Wooster had even left America. I saw it as a direct declaration of his intentions.

"Send Mr. Todd a cable letting him know we arrived in America safely. Leave the letter on my desk, Jeeves."

"Of course, sir. Would you like me to notify anyone else of your safe arrival in London?"

"Oh, I suppose you should let the relations know their favorite nephew has returned. I'm popping off to Drones and word will get to around to everyone else soon enough."

It appeared Mr. Little managed to not stain the couch. and had merely wrinkled Mr. Wooster's suits but he put a deep dent in the cigarette box and drained several bottles. Dust had settled into the nooks and crannies during our absence. It was well past time for a deep cleaning.

Mr. Wooster had the Interclub Cufflink Society cufflinks in his hands the next morning  - I had a moment of softness and "found" them while preparing for deep cleaning. It was a mistake I regretted almost instantly. After they were returned to his possession, he excitedly informed me of the Society Rules. He hadn't informed me previously because I was new and he didn't want to overwhelm me. Mr. Wooster had every rule memorized and spent 45 minutes explaining them all to me, pausing only to sip tea occasionally.  I had, it seems, misunderstood the nature of the Interclub Cuffllink Society. There were cufflinks that were shared and exchanged but more important were the Rules about how you wear the cufflinks to meetings that depended on a series of complicated factors, including the year you joined your main club, which club it was, which school you attended, and the day of the week the meeting was held. 

"Very well, sir."

"So, Jeeves," Mr. Wooster said, "given all of the rules I have explained to you, how do you set my cufflinks today?"

I hesitated.

"Sir?"

"Its quite alright Jeeves." He chuckled paternally, as he raised his chin for me to adjust his tie.  "The rules are rather complicated for the uninitiated." I could have kept tightening until he turned blue. I realized I had gone a bit far when he choked a bit. "A little tight today, Jeeves."

"My apologies, sir." I reluctantly loosened the knot.

"My point being it is Wednesday so..." He looked at me expectantly.  _Good lord, he didn't really expect me to memorize those ridiculous rules?_ After a few beats of dignified silence, he finally clarified. "When you put on my cufflinks, if you could turn the left cufflink the other way around?"

"As you like, sir."

I pressed in his cufflink "correctly".

"Perfection."

The Interclub Cufflink Society would need to be dealt with soon.  I was not overly concerned. The proper moment would come. It might involve some luck - but luck is mostly using the moment when it comes.

While he was at his Cufflink Society lunch, I began to thoroughly deep-clean the apartment. I suspect I touched boards that had not been touched since the original workers laid them. It was getting time to prepare to dress for dinner and I wanted to finish the bedroom before I dressed him for the evening. I was sweeping under Mr. Wooster's bed when, against the wall in a dark corner, I found a small inexpensive looking suitcase. It seemed unlikely to be Mr. Wooster's. Mr. Little's, perhaps?  I set it on the bed to look at it more closely.  Possibly it even pre-dated Mr. Wooster's residence at the apartment. I had only unlatched the trunk when I heard a yelp not unlike a small dog.

"Sir?" I turned to see my employer standing in the doorway - his expression told me all. There was something in this trunk he didn't want me to see.

"I'm sorry Jeeves, that's an old school trunk. I keep a few boyish mementos in it. I'd... prefer to manage it myself if you don't mind."

"Of course not, sir. I apologize. I would have left it if I had realized..."

"No harm done, Jeeves." He was a little too quick to grab it back, but I resisted the urge to speculate too heavily on the trunks contents. Mr. Wooster often was startlingly prudish for an otherwise modern young man. On one memorable occasion, I caught him shamefacedly shoving a magazine shaped object behind the couch cushions. I was convinced he had gotten a hold of a French magazine. I found, on investigation, it was merely the sheet music for an Eddie Cantor song. "You didn't know." He pushed the trunk back into place with a practiced motion. I considered the possibility that I might never feel the need to know the trunks contents. "By the way, Jeeves, you can have the night off tonight. There's an emergency meeting of the Drones Shakespeare Society."

"Very good, sir." 

His blasted club societies. I still had not figured out what made this particular tick of the Wooster clock, but I felt like when I did I would understand the mystery behind these meetings. 

I did not have too much time to speculate on this matter, as my priorities lay with my niece. John Skully had been a good friend of mine for years - I trusted his judgement absolutely. I went into the staff entrance of Pounceby Gardens -  if my presence was noticed, the master would be told that I was representing a party attempting to lure his cook away. A little anxiety over losing his staff has never done an employer harm - it would get the man's heart rate up.

Skully met me and we silently greeted each other.

"I want to warn you, Jeeves. Miss Watson is a sweet woman, but she's a little eccentric." he lowered his voice to a whisper "Believes she and Mr. Little are secretly in love. More of a notion than anything. She probably won't say anything, but if she does, its best to nod and play along."

This was not an uncommon notion among those in service. Every maid and footboy has heard a story in training of a how the friend of friend's maiden Aunt or bachelor Uncle become convinced of such a notion. Its usually harmless - often the person doesn't truly believe it, and for those that do, the conventions that keep the classes in their place are usually enough to prevent unpleasant scenes.

We joined Mabel who was assisting Miss Watson in the kitchen. My niece was dismissed and allowed to join me at the table.

"Have you visited Uncle Bert?" she asked immediately.

My brother Bertram was in his mid-teens when I was born and has lived in a care home for most of my adult life. My few memories of him at home were not pleasant - he seemed a giant hulk of a man, all grabby hands and noises. He was an object of scorn and worry in the household as he frequently ran away from the apprenticeship he had been given to ride on trains. Finally, it was decided that it was best to place him in a home for his own safety - with my parents providing regular train rides for him. His caretakers and Mabel insist he is very gentle natured and I have seen nothing to contradict that. I would not have contact with him beyond the basics after Mother died if it weren't for little Mabel, who needed to feel the embrace of her loving family.

"I only got back this week and I wanted to see you first, dear."

"I think he worries when I come without you. I've been working during visiting hours so I haven't been able to take him on his train rides."

"They have staff that will take him if we are not available. Its in his contract."

"But I think he likes it when we take him. He worries when he doesn't see us."

I didn't believe for a moment my brother understood one way or the other - but I did not have the heart to explain it to her worried eyes.

"My employer is very generous with my time. If I find a free moment during visiting hours, I'll go visit." I cleared my throat. "Enough about him though, how are you, Mabel?"

Given the circumstances, she seemed as content as one could be. She was too embarrassed to look at any more modelling work in London - word about the beautiful girl with the insane aunt traveled quickly. She was getting good training in the kitchen with Miss Watson, but she was firm in her insistence that she would never again work in service.

It was Miss Watson who suggested she go model in New York. I was surprised I hadn't thought of it myself - there were many opportunities for a beautiful young woman in the city. I just so happened to have some connections there from Mr. Wooster.

"Americans don't differentiate accents," I noted. If anything the accent that marked her class immediately in England would only add to her appeal. As the night wore on, I grew sleepy with contentment. Mabel left for work and  the conversation became more personal. Miss Watson confessed she'd been in love with her employer for years, in that half maternal-half worshipful way that could be set in granite as the way service always fell in love with their betters. She was unsure if her feelings were shared, but had hopes. Full of an excellent dinner, and perhaps a bit more in my cups than I should have been - I was deeply affected by her story. I, in turn, confessed the full family troubles with Aunt Judith. Miss Watson was quite sympathetic and gifted me a copy of _Only a Factory Girl_  by Rosie M. Banks to give my aunt as an example of how modern working girls were clean honest young women. 

"And," Miss Watson noted, "it might make it easier for her to manage if Mabel makes a marriage that your aunt would otherwise see as out of her sphere. I bet she isn't as beautiful as that for nothing." I took it with me out of politeness, and ended up reading it that night after I had sent Mr. Wooster off to bed and cleaned the six used glasses and put the six worn copies of  _Hamlet_  on his desk. I felt like I needed something simple and light to ease a worried mind that would not settle. I fell in love with the book immediately. In addition to being something that took my mind off my worries, these books gave Miss Watson and myself something to converse on when I went to check on Mabel. I found the cook to have a light and pleasing personality - if lacking in education. The nights of Drones Shakespeare Society meetings became the nights I trundled down to Pounceby Gardens to have an excellent dinner, check in with my niece, and afterwards have a long chat with Mrs. Watson about the pleasures of the latest Rosie Banks book. On those evenings, I felt like I could spend every night of my life like that.

Ironing is a task that lends itself to thoughtful contemplation at best - daydreaming at worst. I daydreamed often during this time. At first they were vague plans for a future with Miss Watson. She could easily get a job with the Travers household (Mrs. Travers letters seemed to dwell at length on their lack of a good cook) and perhaps while I am at it Mabel could be Mrs Travers personal attendant.  I imagined the wrinkles and folds of my life falling into place like pleating in a pair of trousers.  If Mabel was Mrs. Travers attendant, it would stand to reason that, on occasion, she and Mr. Wooster would see each other. I am not sure when I began to see Mr. Wooster and my little Mabel as the protagonists when I indulged in the next Rosie Banks novel, but it had quite an effect on me. I am embarrassed to admit I created plans to have Mr. Wooster meet my niece, as I pressed his clothes into their proper shapes.  I had seen him at social functions - he plucked beautiful women out of crowds with an efficiency that was only to be marveled at.  I would not improperly encourage her, of course, but he was of a pleasing, clean appearance and a good hearted fellow. She was of a sweet mothering nature and would see my employer's natural helplessness and want to care for him. I waved away the tendencies of Mr. Wooster's I had noticed - a beautiful kind lovable girl was all he needed, I thought, and Mabel was all of those things. It was less about Mr. Wooster and more... imagining a life where my niece was well married, wealthy and content. These daydreams often ended with me in the kitchen with Miss Watson, enjoying her excellent meals and chatting about the latest Rosie Banks book.

I confess to this to explain why, one day, after perhaps being a bit too deep in my cups, I casually exclaimed to Miss Watson:

"If you ever decide Mr. Little doesn't love you, my dear, I will marry you myself."

"Call me, Jane." She responded with a warm smile and something in my stomach sank.

* * *

 "You should watch how you're talking about your golden boy, Reginald." George had an unusually sharp edge to his voice. "You're going to have men fighting for your job when you decide to leave him."

"I have no complaints about my position.."

"He's an orphan." George let out a raspberry. He was clearly inebriated, so I took his comments in better humor as I enjoyed my own beverage.

"I'm reasonably sure he didn't do the job himself."

"They are the worst employers." George said definitively. "They are the worst of both worlds, Reginald. They want your love and they want to love you but they also need to know that they are in charge. They want a disposable daddy that they can replace at a whim. They marry their mother." He seemed to drift a bit here.

"Have you been reading Freud, again?" I asked half seriously.

George seemed to catch himself.

"The honeymoon period is over. He won't be your golden boy when you feel it necessary to cross him. You'll see. And I know you think Freud is sex obsessed but the man has some good underlying ideas...."

"You mean Jung got some good ideas from him." I said teasingly.

"Don't get me started, Reginald. You have too much of a sense of your own dignity to stay with a frivolous young master for long."

"Mr. Wooster is one of the most kind, respectful..." I began.

"Yes, yes. We've all heard it." George snorted. "He's also had the best education England has to offer and considered the question of why Prince Hamlet didn't immediately kill the king a plot hole that no one had noticed."

"Now, in his defense some of the best minds in literary theory are perplexed by the prince's actions..."

"I'll put down a pound you won't last the year. You'll get sick of him. He has nothing to offer."

"I'll put down a shilling he won't last a month." Charlie Wilson threw in. "I once had an employer in the Interclub Cufflink Society - Mr. Wooster is one of the founding members. He created those rules." Several passing members stopped in their tracks and threw down a shilling on two, three, and four months respectively. Wilson thought about it. "If Jeeves lasts the month, I'll take a pound on the year though. A fellow has to make investments occasionally."

This was starting to get a little offensive.

"Now, see here..." I started to say, but was interrupted by John Skully.

"Are we making a pool on when Jeeves will quit? If my employer's nephew is any indication six months will be pushing it - put me down for a shilling. " 

Stiles overheard us passing by and jokingly put down a pence on 24 hours.

Soon a pool had arisen for a tidy sum, with a agreement that the total would go to the winner who chose the time closest to my resignation, or to myself if I remained in Mr. Wooster's employment for the year. This seemed no great hardship. I was already making plans for how that money could be best used to set little Mabel up in New York.

Later that day there was another "emergency meeting" of the Drones Shakespeare Society. Mr. Wooster was playing his Morning Melody in between excited plans for a lunch he had planned the next day with Mr. Potter. I was eagerly anticipating a hearty discussion with Miss Watson on if the unusually somber ending of the most recent Rosie Banks book was a drift too far from form. I had passed Mr. Little in the lobby and realized halfway down the block that I had left my copy of _Army Nurse_ sitting on the kitchen table. Harry, the doorman, was busy helping a fur coat with some packages so I decided, since only Mr. Little had arrived, to run up the stairs, slip in with apologies and grab my book.

I stood for a moment to even my breath before I opened the door and, almost as soon as my eyes focused, closed it. 

It was too late. The scene had already seared itself into my consciousness. I could pretend I did not know but I could not deny it to myself.

I won't describe exactly what I saw, except to note that both men were fully dressed. They were reciting lines from Romeo and Juliet.  That in and of itself was within the realms of a Shakespeare Society. However, they had taken their respective parts to something of an extreme. I immediately tried to think of ways to excuse it as an overenthusiastic reading. I almost could given what I knew of Mr. Wooster. I could even pretend there was an innocent explanation. Mr. Little's strange shyness and marked enthusiasm about the gentler sex was widely known - one could tell oneself that Mr. Wooster was intending to assist his friend.

Its strange the details one remembers - it was his voice. I had known Mr. Wooster for almost two years now and I had exclusively heard him speak at a volume that allowed one to be heard over a dinner table conversation. As he professed love as Juliet, his voice - soft and husky - spoke volumes louder than the actual words. I spent the trip back down wondering how I missed it - Mr. Wooster's every thought passed across his face. He seemed to treat Mr. Little the same as his other friends.  As the lift doors opened to the lobby a horrifying thought occurred to me: What if his never-ending parade of friends were all his lovers?

A polite cough from the lift operator got my attention and I realized I had lost track of where I was.  I drifted out of the lobby as I considered the many new horrible possibilities that were occurring to me. I would quit. It does not matter that he's managed to be discreet enough for me to miss it for this long. That was a scandal waiting to happen. I was thinking out my courteous, yet firm, resignation speech in my mind when I remembered the resignation pool. To quit not even 24 hours after I passionately insisted I was staying in my position would raise questions at the very least. It might end up being more scandalous than if he was caught outright. But, what if it were just Mr. Little?

I had worked as a page at a girl's school in my younger years. It was not uncommon for the girls to frequently have friends they called their little boyfriends. I assumed that there was most likely a similar practice at boys schools.  Mr. Wooster was still very connected to his schoolboy relationships. It was not out of the realm of possibility that this was merely a schoolboy relationship that had continued beyond its normal length.  That could be handled.  It could not continue, of course. Mr. Little was the living embodiment of indiscretion. I know every heated glance and sigh of his romantic entanglements from being in the next room. It was only a matter of time before he was indiscreet in a way that mattered. 

As I meditated on these matters, I passed the hurdy gurdy man. I usually went out of my way to avoid him, but in my distraction was such I found myself passing directly in front of him. I pulled down my hat around my ears, prepared to quickly pass by when I heard the tune the machine was cranking out. It was Mr. Wooster's Morning Melody.

I stopped and watched the song finish. Two or three other people who had stopped for a moment dropped their change and moved on.

"Excuse me?" The man nodded his acknowledgement. "Could you please tell me the name of that song?" I showed the man a new crown I kept in my waistcoat pocket for such purposes. There is something about a shiny coin that elicits answers a dull coin does not.

"Ah." The man seemed confused at first but after repeating my question a few different ways and trying a few different languages to see if there was one we shared he showed me a piece of paper taped to the bottom of his instrument that named the song. It was a children's tune, called "Little Bingo". 

I decided to make my final determination based on what was in that trunk he was so secretive about.

* * *

 I returned at the usual time, half expecting to see some sign of what I had seen earlier. Perhaps for Mr. Wooster to be acting shifty and guilty. Some sign that something was wrong or off.

Everything was as it usually was. Mr. Wooster was dressed for bed, absently picking a tune on the piano. I could almost pretend I had not seen anything and it was a normal evening as I picked up the six well worn copies of _Romeo and Juliet_ , but then I saw the glass. The ice was unmelted. Perhaps my powers of observation had failed me or perhaps Mr. Wooster had become lax over time but four of the six glasses present had fresh ice with a bit of scotch poured into it. The ashtray was full, yes. But the cigarettes were all the same brand and there was very little actual ash. He had taken old cigarettes and placed them in the ashtray.

I felt more foolish by the moment. Not only had he fooled me, he had fooled me with the weakest attempt at trickery I had ever seen. 

I went to bed trying to decide how much of this story to put into the Ganymede notebook. In the morning, I had decided to stick with a simple note that Mr. Wooster is a member of a Shakespeare Society through his club and that the wise attendant would accept the night off without question. Those that wanted to read between the lines, could.

By the time I was cooking the young master's breakfast, I had decided that Mr. Wooster was not capable of the level of deceit required to keep up this charade. No, this had Mr. Little all over it. He was taking advantage of Mr. Wooster's naivety and manipulating his affectionate nature. I would be doing my employer a favor by separating them as quickly as possible. 

By the time, Mr. Wooster left to lunch at Drones, I was ready to see anything ready to be found in the mysterious trunk under his bed. It was a Thursday so he would be gone until it was time to dress for dinner. I tried to have no expectations for what the small cheap case might contain. However I knew what I was worried it contained. I took a deep breath, I put on a pair of gloves that I was about to dispose of and opened it.

A frock and wig were on top. They went straight into the incinerator. Neither was obviously soiled, but I couldn't stand the knowledge they were there. The dress was completely inappropriate for Mr. Wooster's frame and coloring and looked like it had been resewn poorly a dozen times. The wig was a ratty hairpiece that someone had sewn into a cheap bonnet.  I would replace them, naturally. But if he's going to indulge in this sort of thing, it should be with something that doesn't look like a silk sack. Below them were a variety of inexpensive copies of Shakespeare's plays. They all had names written on them in childish hands. On some of them, the names were crossed out and new names were written in a more sure adult handwriting that I recognized as Mr. Little's.  I automatically organized them by play, neatly tying them up with some twine. I almost felt embarrassed. That was it? Then I realized: the bottom of the trunk was suspiciously clean. I checked the visible bottom versus the outside and within a few moments I had the false bottom opened. Here, for a moment, I hesitated. This is a deep violation of Mr. Wooster's privacy. By this, I was entrenching myself more deeply into his life than I had any right to. But I had to see for myself. I had to know exactly what I was getting myself into.

Under the false bottom were: a dusting of dried flower petals, several bundles of letters tied up in a mindlessly complex bundle of knots, a seemingly random selection of yellowed newspaper clippings that were not easily dated and cigarette cards mixed in with some ticket stubs that might well have migrated their way down after being thrown into the main trunk. The only thing of real interest were the letters. They had been tied up so completely that to read one was to have to cut open the bunch. I examined them externally - they appeared to be in the sort of inexpensive paper that I associated with the military - I could see censorship marks on several of them, though I could not distinguish any words.  I could not even begin to speculate their origin - he had no close relations who would have been in the war. The rest appeared to be what Mr. Wooster had stated his trunk to contain - leftover boyish mementos. 

It was a relief. No secreted images from boxing or fitness magazines. No decadent ambiguously medical objects. A few cigarette cards featuring a great deal of feminine leg, but nothing French. Nothing alarming - the sort of thing many a good English boy had secreted in hidden places. This was the evidence I needed to fully convince myself that Mr. Wooster didn't understand what he was doing in adult terms.  I called a cousin of mine who did some costume work and told her that Mr. Wooster's club was planning a vaudevillian performance for charity. My employer, I informed her, was going to reprise a youthful performance as Desdemona. 

"Could you make up a dress for him? I'll send you his measurements. And order an appropriate wig."

"Oh, that should be hilarious." 

"Don't go too over the top with it." I said warningly, "I'd prefer to have something that could be easily stored - you know how flighty these young men can be."

Now that I know the connecting link I was able to figure out that the Drones Shakespeare Society usually meets after Mr. Little is licking his wounds from his latest attempt at an romantic entanglement. Based on my observations, this would be within the next six to eight weeks. I no longer daydreamed about a Wooster household or cozy nights discussing popular literature with the cook. I destroyed wrinkles and thought of how to best get rid of Mr. Little. The short sharp shock seemed best.

Catching or seeming to catch Mr. Little in an indiscretion seemed the most obvious method. It was a scenario that seemed likely to permanently damage their friendship - but, I told myself, Mr. Wooster had many friends.

I am not proud of my actions. I was crude and harsh in my methods because I thought the poison pill was needed. Like Iago, I found the metaphorical handkerchief. Blew on small fires. Arranged mysterious phone calls for Mr. Little to the club. I even gave a young woman of uncertain reputation a few shillings to create a scene around Mr. Little.  I knew Mr. Wooster would not be best pleased.

If anyone needed to be displeased, I had decided, it was Mr. Wooster. He had been way too pleased lately with a new pair of cufflinks from the Interclub Cufflink Society that were, to not mince words, the ugliest things I had ever seen in my life. Mr. Wooster called them olive green but I seen that colour on too many handkerchiefs to think of that shade in such polite terms.  That was bad enough, but they were also molded into the most awful awkward shapes. They were an offence to the senses. The colour.  The mindless lack of symmetry.  And so expensive. I hated how expensive they were - dear Mabel could live comfortably in America for weeks on their price. But I particularly hated the mindlessly complex rules that encompassed the Interclub Cufflink Society that Mr. Wooster insisted on following every meeting.  I eagerly anticipated the moment I could shove the cufflinks behind the drawer.

George would have shaken his head at me. Learn the stupid cufflink rules, he would say. You always get like this about employers. But a man has to have some principles in life - I choose to draw the line around snot colored cufflinks. I hid the cufflinks that night.

The next morning, I discovered Mr. Wooster standing at his dresser - holding monstrously ugly cufflinks in one hand and the drawer in the other.

"Strangest thing, Jeeves." He said pointedly. "I found my cufflinks behind the drawer."

"Quite fortunate that you thought to look there, sir."

"I thought so. I can't figure out is how they got back there. I checked and they are too thick to slide over the back."

"Most unusual, sir."

"Well, I'll know to look when my cufflinks disappear from now on, won't I Jeeves?" 

"Very well, sir."

"Oh and Jeeves?" He held out his wrists. "Make sure and turn the cufflinks to the Tuesday configuration. I'm hosting lunch for my friends from the Cufflink Society today. I must set a good example."

For a wild moment, I started to suspected he was toying with me and merely making up rules. Any thoughts in that direction dissolved after Mr. Sipperly arrived and, upon seeing Mr. Wooster's wrists, immediately said,

"I almost forgot, its Tuesday." and held out his own wrists for assistance.

For a horrible moment I thought Mr. Wooster was going to ask me to redo Mr. Sipperly's cufflinks. If he had, I might have quit on the spot. Instead Mr. Wooster helped his friend himself.

My plans moved along. The dress was finished satisfyingly quickly. I suspected an emergency meeting of the Shakespeare Club would follow its appearance. It was a marked improvement over the old one - created to be easy to wear for a young man who would know nothing about the garment other than to wear it. She included proper petticoats - an old set she had knocking about that were clean, if a bit short. The box with the new dress in my hand, I confessed my transgression in sorting through his childhood trunk as he was playing in the morning.

"I apologize, sir. I was cleaning on autopilot the other day and without thinking about it I opened your private trunk, sir."

"Oh?" His fingers froze in mid-air. His back was to me, so I could not see his face. 

"I assumed the costume materials I found were intended for a Shakespeare Society performance for charity. There were most unsuitable to your coloring, sir. I had a cousin of mine make a fresh gown that would be much more appealing."

"Oh." His shoulders visible relaxed. "Yes. The charity performance. That's very thoughtful of you, Jeeves - completely unnecessary though. The charity performance was years ago - it was only an old souvenir."

"I could send it back, sir." I offered.

"No." He said a little too quickly. "I'm just a little disappointed, Jeeves. I told you I wanted those things left alone."

I took the gown out of its box. shook it out and held it out for his appraisal as he turned. Any further words of reprisal for looking through his things died on his lips when he observed the gown in all of its glory.  All was forgiven. 

Mr. Wooster declared an emergency meeting of the Drones Shakespeare Society the next day.

I almost felt a bit guilty for what I was about to do to the young man. I contacted my associate as soon as Mr. Wooster had announced the club meeting. I went out like I normally would. I drank of a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette and then returned to Mr. Wooster's apartment to get something I had "forgotten".  I suspected my presence might be necessary. One gets these feelings.

Mr. Little and a young woman were arguing as they left the elevator. She was not, I might note, my associate. As I went to the stairs, Mr. Little's eyes met mine and for a moment he looked at me with such virulent anger that I was certain he knew. The moment passed and I went up the stairs to tend to my employer - who was nowhere to be seen.

I expected to find the fruits of my labor to be satisfying. I found, instead, a deeply distressed young man, keening in the bathroom, trying for all the world to pretend he was not crying. I ended up giving him a Mickey Finn to calm him down enough to stop any unfortunate confessions. I was careful in my dosing so I was able to wake him enough for him to half-sleepily assist me as I walked him to the bed.

"They hate me, Jeeves." He moaned.

"Who hates you, sir?"

"The Mrs. Littles. They're going make him quit Drones and I'll never see him again."

"You are dreaming, sir." I assured him quietly.

"Am I?" He seemed confused.

"Yes, sir."

He seemed satisfied enough with that explanation to be put into bed.

When Mr. Wooster awoke and accepted one of my special cures. I was unsure how much he remembered of the night before. I did not directly pry and he made no attempt to confide. The only obvious sign of his distress was in the way he picked at his breakfast.  However, when I reminded him of his Interclub Cufflink Society meeting that afternoon and he responded "What do cufflinks matter?" I became genuinely concerned that I had somehow gone too far.

I was in the process of making a drink to try to cheer Mr. Wooster up when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to discover what I would guess to be a dozen or so Drones on the other side.

"Jeeves is still here." said one.

"You owe me two pounds." said another.

Mr. Potter, at the head of the group, shushed them.

"Is Bertie awake?"

"My apologies, Mr. Potter. I was about to call you. Mr. Wooster is feeling under the weather and has decided to spend the day resting."

"Oh no." Mr. Potter said cheerfully. "Bertie is going to get up and have a smashing day." He quickly zoomed around me and into Mr. Wooster's room.

"Surprise, Bertie! Happy Birthday!"

There was some chatter as the dozen or so Drones pushed past to run after their ringleader of the moment, leaving me with Mr. Herring, who hung behind.

"It's not my birthday?" I could hear Mr. Wooster saying, clearly confused.

"That's what makes it a surprise!" 

Mr. Herring handed me a one pound note.

"Biffy had to leave early...." He started. This was a bad start.

"As I recall, sir,  Mr. Biffen is no longer in Town."

"Oh yes, that's right..." Mr. Herring considered this. "Bingo..." he stage whispered. To my surprise, Mr. Little shuffled into the doorway - he avoided my gaze. "Who should I say was here instead of Biffy?"

Mr. Little glanced nervously at the group, who were emotionally massaging my employer and insisting on how long and hard they had worked and he had to come see what they did at Drones.

"Ginger." He whispered. Then, continuing to not look as me as if avoiding my gaze made him invisible, he removed himself to the hallway.

"Ginger, then. Bingo, Catsmeat and myself were having a heated argument over whether Francis Bacon wrote Shakespeare's plays for him to settle a bet or out of the kindness of his heart. Mr. Wooster was upset by the yelling and retired early."

"Of course, sir." I said, putting the note in my pocket. "I remember vividly. Are unpleasant disagreements of this sort normal for the Shakespeare Society, sir?"

"Oh, no, you won't have to worry about this again I don't think. Its been years since there's been an incident like this, and we will manage it." Mr. Herring added in a whisper, "Bingo will probably get married soon enough."

Something about his attitude rattled me.

"What about Mr. Wooster?" I asked quietly.

"Bertie will get over it." But he was not paying attention to me anymore as he ran to join the others in convincing Mr. Wooster to be cheered up.

Mr. Wooster assented to attending his birthday celebration. After I helped him dress, they all began a raucous rendition of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" . As they left, a gentleman who I did not immediately recognize pressed a one pound note into my hand saying

"I won the pool thanks to you. I didn't think you'd quit like the last one."

I held the note for some time after the group left, lost in thoughts.

His friends all knew. They not only knew, but they supported it. For reasons I did not understand, they ran to repair the relationship. The only bright spot was that it had been kept so hidden that if you didn't know where to look you wouldn't see it. If I had not wandered in, I never would have suspected. But, as long as the group protected Mr. Little, I saw that prying him out of my employers life would be difficult to impossible.

That night, Mr. Wooster came home, to use his terminology, tight as an owl but his normal happy self. He sat at the piano.

"I apologize for being in such a brown mood this morning, Jeeves. I feel much better now. Did I get any mail today?"

He set out the sheet music as I read his letters out loud, his fingers beginning to feel out the notes of an unfamiliar song.

I had gotten to a letter of Mr. Todd's that was a rather decadent bit of writing that I skimmed and then summarized as, "Mr. Todd reports the earthworms in Long Island are beginning to stir for spring." when he stopped playing for a moment.

"Thank you, Jeeves, set my letters on my desk I'll examine them further at my leisure." He flicked through the sheet music again, trying out a different section testingly before stopping. "I've decided to resign the Interclub Cufflink Society, Jeeves." He hit a couple of keys seemingly at random. "The selections aren't quite as fun as they used to be and the rules have been a bit of a frost....  Don't you think?"

"A trifle unpleasant, sir." I acknowledged.

"And I think I need to weed down my memberships a bit. Focus more on fellows like my friends at Drones. Not many coves would throw a chap a surprise birthday party like that just when he needs it most."

He closed the sheet music and proceeded to play his Morning Melody in full. 

It occurred to me that night, some of the long term men in Drones were never invited to join the Jr. Ganymede. I soon rectified this error and the many Drones shortly had entries about their habits and foibles. Several found themselves raised a grade in their potential as employers. One hand in Mr. Wooster's entry focused on his social nature with another hand noting that he was good to service and that if Mr. Wooster had an issue, it was likely genuine. Under Mr. Little's entry, there was a long list of the gently nurtured he had fallen "in love" with along with the favors he claimed they showed him (often along the lines of "smiled encouragingly" and "allowed him to brush her hand"). The end of the long list - briskly mentioned in passing was the following: _Young men in Mr. Little's circle take an outsized interest in one of his friendships._ There was a novel of information in that single sentence, appended to the end of a long list of (presumably) every young lady of his own age Mr. Little has ever met - almost no one would read the list in detail.

Mr. Wooster's secret was safe. 

* * *

At first, I planned to mind my own business. If his friends are willing and able to manage his relationship with Mr. Little, the best thing I could do was be unaware of it. Mr. Wooster was more attached to Mr. Little than I had suspected. He often had lunch with Mr. Little on Mondays when he met with the young men he had known his whole life. He would grab a taxi with Mr. Little on Tuesday while leaving to have drinks with his friends from Eton.  On Wednesday, Mr. Little was in the contingent of fellow Oxfordians my employer met for a game of darts. I tried to stop watching for it, but now that I knew - I saw him everywhere.

I was unsure if I wanted to continue my connection to Miss Watson - I had allowed myself to get so caught up in frivolities, I missed things that were directly in front of me.  I was fully prepared to marry Miss Watson if it came to it - it was, in fact, the best way to extricate myself from the rather uncomfortable situation I had created for myself with the betting pool if necessary. An excellent cook and an man with my experience and skills would have little to no trouble finding placement as a matched pair. I had no specific objection I could name to Miss Watson, who was physically well maintained and of a pleasing nature overall.  In fact, I was in my room writing a letter to Seppings suggesting Mrs. Watson's services as a cook might be of use to the Travers when Mr. Wooster arrived home with Mr. Little in tow. Mr. Wooster had called earlier dismissing me for the evening so I stayed _in loco_ \- my door was open to increase air circulation as my employer rarely entered the kitchen.  I could hear them both as clearly as if they were in my room with me.  They were intoxicated, though I would have judged Mr. Little to be more so. 

"What we need to do is forget about getting married to girls and move to France together." Mr. Little slurred.

"You're pickled." Mr. Wooster oozed back.

"I am, but its a good idea. You know what they say about the French - anything goes there. We could live like we were married and no one would care."

"You'd run off with the first can-can girl who... whom... who... bats her eyes at you."

"I wouldn't." Mr. Little said as seriously as possible given his level on intoxication. "Not if we decided that we...." 

The rest of what he said was unintelligible as Mr. Wooster spoke over him.

"Bingo, you've been wanting to get married since you were aware of the concept. You would never be happy with anything less. Now quit being ridigu... ridico.... silly."

At this point, Mr. Wooster sent his friend to bed. At least that's what I heard him say.

Mr. Wooster put him off this time, but I suspected Mr. Little could wear Mr. Wooster down. Why wouldn't Mr. Little push for them to move to France? He would have everything to gain and when Mr. Wooster startlingly clear-sighted vision came to life my employer would be the one hurt - the one banished alone in a foreign country or to come home to jeers. I push the memory of his distressed face the other night out of my mind. I had no desire to move to France or to be part of... an unorthodox household. No, it was time to cut things off between them. But this time I had to be more subtle. The poison pill was too strong - no this would take a lighter touch. Mr. Little had no compunction about using the lever of their mutual friends to get Mr. Wooster to do as he pleased, but Mr. Wooster would almost certainly not do the same. I had to convince Mr. Little that it was in his best interest to break things off with Mr. Wooster - then I'd add a little wormwood to the mix to make it easier for Mr. Wooster to wean himself from the relationship. 

I arranged to meet Mr. Little at a city park as if by coincidence. Mr. Little had looked askance at me since the night of the Shakespeare Society fight. I had observed Mr. Little long enough to be reasonably sure how to work him - compliments mixed with veiled threats. Comments about the necessity of focusing your mind on marriage that might be the general sort of talk but suggests a hidden knowledge.  Mr. Little wasn't quite the clear pond that Mr. Wooster was, but I could tell that I had unnerved him. I ended by suggesting Mr. Little attend a local subscription dance for charity to meet available young women, as if that had been my intention the entire time. He bought two tickets.

Observation had taught me that while Mr. Little tended to be among the shrewder of Mr. Wooster's friends, it was best to put a fine point on it.

"I believe the Drones Shakespeare Club has about outlived its usefulness, don't you think?"

"I was thinking the same thing." He said breathlessly. He understood.

Mr. Wooster announced that the Drones Shakespeare Society was disbanding a few days later, as he closed up his piano for the morning.

"This will be the last meeting of the Drones Shakespeare Society, Jeeves. We've decided we've plumbed everything we could out of Shakespeare."

"I understand, sir."

"I'll miss the camaraderie, of course, but I'll still see them at Drones, I suppose."

"Quite assuredly. sir."

* * *

Now, Mr. Little did meet dear Mabel at the dance. Do not be mistaken - I did not loose my niece on Mr. Little like a common pimp.  I might have suggested that Mabel come with me; but she made her own choices. Mr. Little was not a young man without his charms - though if she recognized him from photos from his Uncle's home and put two and two together, I would not lose any respect for her. I did nothing to encourage or discourage her as she took up with the young man.

I merely asked the questions any father figure would ask.

"What does the young man do for a living?" _Why, he lives off an allowance from his uncle._

"How much is this allowance? Is it enough to support a family?"  _I make almost that much myself at the diner._

"Would you want to be dependent on the generosity of a relative?"  _Not particularly, I'd rather he put some of that fancy education to work._

She came to realize that a young man from a wealthy family was not necessarily the answer her to her problems. A good lesson for a young woman.

"What if that uncle of his gets married and has spawn of his own? I'm not going to work as a waitress while supporting him and a baby too."

"Have you decided to cut things off with your young man, my dear?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Then, my dear, since you have made your decision, I will speak frankly with you. Mr. Little is a friend of my employers, and if you've already decided to cut things off with him I would like you to help me with something."

"What sort of something?"

I took out the Horseshoe Tie. I had bought it several weeks previous at a rummage sale for a pence both to rescue London from the sight of it and for the pure pleasure of slicing it to ribbons and incinerating it. I was glad I had kept it - it was perfect for my purposes. It was scab red with a pox of little horseshoes infecting it. It was made of that common and cheap looking fabric that shined like a wet and dirty street.

"Tell him that you will marry him if he gets enough of an increase in his allowance that you two could live on. Give him this as a gift."

"That's cruel."

"Women break off engagements for reasons like that all of the time."

"No," She burst into laughter, "That tie. The fellow didn't do anything to hurt me. Why would I hurt him like that?"

"He probably won't even wear it." I assured her. "He will probably carry it around with him like a knight carrying his ladies's favour."

I half believed it. When I saw it on Mr. Little, I almost broke. The point was not to make Mr. Little look foolish - though I did consider that rather a bonus. No, the tie was the wormwood.

Mr. Wooster was not a snob but he was raised to view those beneath him in class from a polite distance. The horseshoe tie would create immediate associations with Mr. Little and the lower class. It would jump out to him as crass and emphasize the true gap of breeding between them. It would make relations with Mr. Little feel unseemly in a way he could not quite state outright. It was not obvious enough to startle him into rebellion, but now Mr. Little was associated with a feeling of seediness my employer would not quite be able to put his finger on. 

Things moved briskly - the young Mr. Little was never a proper match for my Mabel, though I would not have stood in her way if she had chosen him. On the other hand, Miss Watson's heart was quite taken with the elder Mr. Little.  I will not speak to her former employer's innards, but I believe the employment offer from the Travers was the final touch needed for that particular organ to have its say. I, naturally, could not begrudge her the ultimate in job security. As a settlement for our broken engagement, the new Mrs. Little gifted me her Rosie M. Banks collection and I passed it on to my grateful aunt.

After my relations with Mrs. Watson were severed, I arranged for Mabel's trip to America. Between her waitress money, my compensation from Mr. Little for my efforts, and some well placed bets at the horse races - she could pass as a marginally wealthy young Englishwoman looking for modelling work to supply herself with pin money.

When Mr. Wooster decided to go to New York to escape his aunt's wrath, the timing could not be more perfect.  He insisted on seeing his friend Mr. Todd first thing while I set up his apartment in New York. This was a matter easily done and I quickly made my way to visit my niece. I found her heartbroken. The girl who stood bravely at her mother's funeral and went to work the next day with dry cheeks, wept as she described her would-be fiance's sweet little farm with geese wagging their tails, fat oinking piglets, chickens softly clucking.

"And Uncle Bert!" She added. "Uncle Bert would have loved it there."

"Uncle Bert is fine where he is."

"There is an old farmhouse looks right out at the train tracks. Charles said he could be there and watch the trains all he...all..." 

She burst into fresh weeping.  She mourned the life she had already begun to plan. He must have laid it on thick - Mabel was not a girl whose head was easily turned. She claimed that she did not allow the youth any liberties, but the depths of her despair seemed to run deeper than one would expect from a chaste relationship. I recognized the name Charles Biffen as a friend of my employer.  I never would have guessed it. He seemed like a harmless enough young man when I had seen him previously. I had no one but myself to blame. I had allowed her to think she could marry outside of her star and had groomed her to allow a young man to lead her down the primrose path. I would do Mr. Biffen no favors, of course. But he was merely acting in the manner of men of his class - it was our responsibility to maintain the proper boundaries.

In the emotions stirred up by this situation, I behaved in a manner I am not proud of. I sent Mr. Wooster's calling cards out to all of his New York acquaintances. I told myself it was for the young man's own good. Mr. Little was as subtle as a battering ram in manipulating Mr. Wooster and he had no problem managing him. A man like Mr. Todd might as well already have my employer... Well it was not something I cared to dwell on. Mr. Wooster didn't have the capacity to understand what his American pen-pal was - the fact that Mr. Todd had guessed correctly about the nature of Mr. Wooster's relationship with Mr. Little, as far as I was concerned, made the young man even more of a danger to a naive and inexperienced young man.

I was wrong and, in my poor judgement, I enabled a chain of events that led to Mr. Todd having to remove himself from America to France. All turned out well enough - it was while visiting Mr. Todd in France that Mr. Wooster met with Mr. Biffen and set off the actions that led to a happy conclusion for my dear Mabel. She and Mr. Biffen have been very content together. The very picture of the generically happy image I had imagined for her. A wealthy husband she could respect, who loved her to the ends of the earth, a comfortable home and a warm little family.

When my Mabel married Mr. Biffen, I felt like I had somehow corrected the balance of the world in some small way - as if I had seen a bottle of fine champagne about to fall and stopped it with my pinky finger. I decided then I had spent enough time in the kitchen, reading popular literature. I wanted to know more about this balance of the world. I had read the classic Greek philosophers, listened to many thought-provoking lectures but it was time I take on a true challenge. I made a mental note to pick up a copy of Spinoza's _Ethics_ at the next opportunity.


End file.
